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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


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PURELY  ORIGINAL  VERSE. 


COMPLETE  WORKS, 

AND  A  NUMBER  OF  NEW  PRODUCTIONS, 
IN  ONE  VOLUME. 

BY 

J.  GORDON  gOOGLER, 

COLUMBIA,  S.  C. 

REVISED,  ILLUSTRATED  AND  PUBLISHED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


/     * 


Price  -$1.00.     By  Mail,  post-paid,  $1.10. 
1897. 

Copyright,  1897,  by  the  author. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  EARLY  HOME  NEAR  COLUMBIA. 

Farewell,  sweet  home  of  my  childhood  hours! 

Where  joy  and  sorrow  were  blended; 
Within  thy  halls  I  have  loved  and  lost, 

But  now  those  scenes  are  ended. 

[Page  43.] 


135 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  path  to  Fame                      .           .  35 

Impossible 

Woman's  Folly           ....  86 

Ah,  Daisy 87 

Some  Day  . 

Sing  on  gentle  Muse           ...  88 

Mysterious  Tear  " 

Destroy  it  not  ,  89 
Alas!  Carolina! 

They  laid  her  down  in  a  lonely  Grave      .  40 

A  Crystalized  Rose                  .                  .  41 

In  Remembrance  .  42 
When  she  is  gone 

Farewell,  sweet  Home!           .              .  48 
More  care  for  the  Neck  than  the  Intellect 
Unsteady  I  stand              .                           ,44 

Other  Days               .               .  45 

Farewell,  Sweet  Summer              .             .  " 

Farewell,  Lilian                           .           .  46 

She  fell  like  a  flake  of  Snow  .  .  47 
Keep  silent,  Hand  .  .48 
So-called  Friendship  .  . 

Pretty  Miss  Lou  ...  49 
I  wish  I  was  There  .  .  .50 

The  Working  Girl  .  .  51 
A  gloomy  Picture 

To  Laura  ....  5:2 
The  Mind  . 

Maud,  the  Mill  and  the  Lily            .           .  5:5 

How  strangely  Dark               .  59 

An  Outcast  Pearl               .             .           .  59 

You'll  never  See  it  .  .  .  (51 
Devotion  .... 

Hope,  sweet  Hope           .           .              .  62 

The  Midnight  Hour  .  .  (j;{ 
"Thro'  Storm  on  Earth  to  Peace  in  Heaven"  6i 

Hail,  thou  Queen,  Atlanta            .            .  66 

(Jan  you  blame  Me?  .  .  .  67 
How  Sweet  .  .  .  . 

Few  would  Return            ....  68 

1  dislike  a  Vain  and  Haughty  Man  .  <y 
Live  honest,  be  Kind  ..." 
The  Days  of  my  Youth  .  .  .7(1 

On  the  death  of  Edgar  W.  Nye            .            .  71 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Unforgiven— Adieu!  .  .72 

Christ  on  Calvary  ...  75 

When  we  were  Young  ...          76 

To  one  who  is  all  Loveliness  .  .         77 

Farewell  for  a  time  .  .  . 

Farewell,  Sweet  College  Girl  .  .         78 

Marriage  and  Death  ... 

Side  by  side,  Some  Day  .  .  79 

She's  ill  .... 

1  cannot  think  that  I'll  he  lost  Forever  80 

To  Amy  . 

South  Carolina  ...  82 

To  the  young  Unjust  Critic  .  .  «;! 

Columbia,  ....•• 

We  part  To-night  .  (That  rose)         81 

A  Violet  and  a  Jonquil  .  .  y~> 

The  Past  ....•• 

To  Miss  Mattie  Sue .  .  .     8<> 

The  Deceiver  ... 

I  love  thy  Shades  .  .87 

To  a  Vain  Mortal  .  .  . 

My  Lassie  and  1  ...  88 

The  Grave  where  a  Woman  lies  .  8.) 

Beside  Life's  Ocean          ...  v»o 

'Tis  better  this  hand  was  Silent 

A  Tree  of  varied  Fruits  and  Buds          .  !U 

Where  Vanity  puffs  the  Heart 

Conceited  .  .  .  .92 

The  first  ray  of  Hope        (ingratitude-) 

The  Coming  Bard        (Autumn)  .  m 

The  Past — Turn  the  Page.      (On  to  Eternity)  v)4 

From  the  Palace  to  the  Woodland  (The  Dude (95 

The  Lover's  return  on  a  Bicycle  .  wtt 

How  deep  the  Mystery  .  .  lii;{ 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Congaree  .  .     im 

The  cause  of  Anotliei's  Woe  1  17 

A  lovely  Woman  s  Glance 

Cold  in  Death  .  .  .  M8 

To  Helen  .  .  .  .  LM 

Eula  and  Eunita,  the  two  Orphans  . 

A  Different  Tide  (To  Marian)        . 

My  own  World  .  .  . 

Thou  old  Hypocrite        (Woman's  Love) 

To  my  Mother  .  .  m 

One  who  would  Linger    (Oh,  Jealous  Heart)  " 

Perhaps  .  .  .  llti 

More  Costly  than  a  Diamond  Ring  117 

Solitude 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Memorial  day  in  Columbia           .           .  118 
Man's  Life           .              .              ,.."'"** 

How  strange  are  Dreams        (Dissipation)  119 

Carrier's  Address           (Little  Ethel  W.)  120 

The  Death  of  Charles  A.  Dana             .  122 

My  Country               (Woman)           .  " 

Byron       (My  lovely  Venus)     (My  Country)  123 

Close  by  her  Bosom           .           .           .  124 

Two  Loved  ones  in  Heaven           .           .  125 

A  Broken  Tie            ....  126 

Just  simply  grand               .              .  127 

Footprints  by  the  Mill              .           .           -  128 

Farewell  to  those  Moments            -         -  131 

Hills,  Roads,  a  Valley  and  a  Fountain        .  132 

The  Autumn  Leaves      (Worldly  Pleasure)  134 

False,  Ungrateful,  Unkind           .           .  135 

In  the  Wilds  of  my  Soul            .  " 

Twilight  on  the  Farm            .           .            .  136 
P— D.  and  B— E.            ..." 

Reposing           (A  Mistake)            .            .  137 

Poor  Fellow,  he's  Dead           .           .           ,  138 
Annie,  the  Mocking-Bird 

Tnere's  Bliss  for  you               (Alone)         .  13.) 
In  Memorial                Childhood  Scenes 

The  Memory  of  thy  Face            .  140 

There'll  be  my  Tomb               .               .  1H 

Our  Final  Home.                 Farewell        .  142 

To  my  Mother.             A  Mustachless  Bard  143 

May  all  these  be  thine,  Mayme        .        .  144 

"f  is  Hard  to  be  happy           .  145 
To  the  poor  Young  Man 

An  Empty  Vase               .               .             .  146 

Beware  of  your  Character           .          .        .  147 
Circumstances 

Memory's  Picture               .                              .  148 
A  Monument  of  Love            .            .               . 

Not  Satisfied              •           .           .               .  lifl 

Remembered  Smiles            .           .            .  1~'» 

Lydie's  sweet  dark  Eyes                   ,           .  " 

Tread  Softly.           Written  for  an  ...Ibuui  1^ 
No  Autumn  in  the  Heart.        A  pretty  Girl 
Some  Day.              'Tis  of  Thee  that  i  think 
That  Red  Hat.                Young  Manliood 
A  Golden-haired  Girl.         But  few  Virtues 
A  Gracious  Friend.        .         Vocal  Music- 
Alone  at  Midnight  on  the  Congarce 
Don't  wound  Her  Feelings 
Passing  Away.           I'll  only  think  of  Thee 


CONTENTS 


Thinking  of  Thee.        Sleep,  sweet  Child  160 

To  Lydie.        .        .        The  cup  of  Sorrow  101 

She's  very  Dear  to  Me.        .        .    Tears  1(W 

To  Eleanore.     .    Pull  off  those  Suspenders  16tf 

Thy  Mother's  Love.        .      Departed  Hope.  164 

The  Bible.        .        .        Mattie           .           .  165 

A  Fallen  Women.      Death    True  friendship  166 

To  a  Dear  One  on  the  Other  Shore           .  167 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  J.  H.  W.        ...  168 

Yours  not  Mine  " 

To  a  Friend.                  ....  170 
This  Lock  of  Hair  in  my  Watch 

Her  Heart  is  my  Cottage             .           .  171 
Once,  and  Only            ...              . 

The  White  Head's  Farewell  to  Time        .  17:2 

You  Critics             .                         .              .  *• 

Think  of  Me.         .         A  Mother's  L  >ve  178 

The  Grave  of  the  Past           .  174 

Xot  till  Then            .                                      .  175 

Beside  the  Brook            ....  176 

The  .Sweetest  Rose           .  179 

Alice  on  Her  Bike           ....  ]8f> 

"Let  me  Lose"            ....  lnl 
Beyond  the  Garden  \\>11         .            .            .182 

That  Group  of  Sweet  Singers          .       .  I8t 

Farewell,  Sweet  Rose               .                .  185 
You  Domestic  Critics               . 

That  Little  Brown-Eyed  Lady          .          .  186 

That  Upper  Western  Room        .               .  187 
A  Green  Isle  of  Rest                .                     .188 

Sleeping  'Neath  the  Violets           .          .  18v> 
Isn't  this  Bliss                . 

A  Reply  to  a  Valentine        ....  190 

A  Sweet  Object.            .        Endurance        .  191 
A  Snow-Covered  Earth.         .... 

To  Fair  Nina           .          .            .          .        .  19'2 

To  Dora.            .            .        A  Wisli            .  19)5 

To  Florence,  Lily  and  Nonie            .          .  194 
A  Wish 


INTRODUCTION. 

Having  been  very  successful  in  the  past  with  my  poetical 
works,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  place  in  the  hands  of  an  ap 
preciative  public  this  volume  containing  my  entire  works, 
(consisting  of  five  volumes)  revised,  with  many  of  my  latest 
unpublished  productions. 

T  have  been  very  much  gratified  at  the  appreciation 
shown  my  works  in  the  past.  The  many  lengthy  and  com 
plimentary  magazine  and  newspaper  editorial  reviews  ac 
corded  my  works  throughout  this  entire  country,  have 
stimulated  me  to  no  little  extent,  and  assured  me  of  the 
success  of  this  volume.  I  desire  to  tender  to  them  my 
thanks  and  appreciation  for  their  kind  treatment  of  same. 

I  have  given  each  poem  in  this  volume  my  profound  at 
tention.  Have  consumed  much  midnight  oil  in  trying  to 
do  justice  to  the  subjects  which  lay  nearest  to  my  heart  and 
inspired  me  to  write. 

I  have  disposed  of  more  than  2,800  copies  of  my  five  small 
volumes.  They  have  been  in  demand  not  only  in  the  South, 
but  throughout  the  North. 

hi  presenting  this  volume  I  shall  repeat  the  words  con 
tained  in  the  introduction  of  my  former  ones:  "My  style 
and  my  sentiments  are  MY  OWN,  purely  original." 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  quote  all  of  the  many  lengthy  re 
views  given  my  past  works  by  the  press  at  large — or  the 
numerous  complimentary  letters  received  from  literary  per- 


6 

sons  throughout  the  country — as  they  would  more  than  fill 
this  volume.  I  shall  give  only  a  few  extracts  from 'some  of 
the  leading  periodicals,  beginning  with  "MUNSEY'S  MAGA 
ZINE,"  October,  1896.  Their  review  I  shall  give  in  full  as 
follows  : 

"J.  GORDON  COOGLER,  POET  LAUREATE. 

"It  is  with  no  little  confidence  that  we  submit  to  an  appreciating  pub- 
lie  the  name  of  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  the  Sweet  Singer  of  South  Carolina, 
as  a  candidate  for  the  position  of  American  poet  laureate.  That  the 
United  States  have  never  yet  been  able  to  boast  an  officially  recognized 
national  bard  has  seemed  to  us  a  matter  for  regret.  The  time  seems  ripe 
for  the  conferring  of  such  an  honor,  and  we  know  of  no  one  upon  whom 
it  can  more  justly  be  bestowed  than  upon  Mr.  Coogler.  As  yet  but  little: 
is  known  of  this  poet  who  i.-t  wasting  his  sweetness  upon  the  desert  air, 
but  it  will  be  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  direct  attention  to  his  work 
to  secure  for  him  the  reputation  which  he  deserves, 

His  latest  volume  of  poems  is  four  inches  wide  by  live  and  three  quar- 
ter  inches  long  and  one  quarter  inch  thick;  it  is  bound  in  blue  paper, 
and  printed  by  the  author;  and  we  are  informed  by  the  introduction 
that  it  is  the  fourth  of  a  series, completing  more  than  four  hundred  com' 
positions.  We  shall  never  cease  to  leproach  ourselves  for  not  having 
1>»  eo:ne  familiar  with  Mr.  Coogler' s  work  before.  His  poems  are  of  the 
Ij'rical  order  and  display  a  marked  ability  in  the  matter  of  rhyme,  tem 
pered  with  a  pleasing  pessimism.  As  he  says  in  his  preface,  'My  style; 
and  my  sentiments  are  my  own,  purely  original,  I  have  borrowed  no 
words  intentionally  from  any  author.'  One  hasonly  to  read  these  verse* 
to  In-  convinced  that  this  claim  is  absolutely  accurate.  The  laureate 
thus  addresses  his  critics; 

"Challenge  me  to  light  OH  the  open  iield, 

And  hurl  at  my  head  the  fiery  dart, 

Rather  than  belittle  the  gentle  muse 

That  ushers  from  this  lonely  heart. 

"It  must  indeed  be  a  captious  reviewer  who  cannot  frankly  admire 
the  charming  simplicity  and  pastoral  beauty  of  Mr.  Coogler's  poetry. 
Witness  what  may  be  done  in  the  way  of  rhyming  if  one  has  only  the 


divine  afflatus,  and  witness  also  the  peculiar  pathos  of  the  thought : 

'•From  early  youth  to  the  frost  of  age 

Man's  days  have  been  a  mixture 
Of  all  that  constitutes  in  life 
A  dark  and  gloomy  picture. 

"Good  as  this  is.  however,  it  is  not  in  philosophical  quatrains  that  the 
p->et  reaches  his  highest  level,  but  rather  in  lyrics  that  deal  with  the 
tender  passion.  In  the  poem  entitled  -To  Miss  Mattie  Sue'  we  have  a  use 
of  the  vei'b  'do'  which  commands  immediate  attention  : 

'•As  the  summer  sunbeams 
Peep  o'er  the  distant  hills 

On  some  sweet  and  lonely  brook, 
80  my  weary,  longing  eyes. 
Warm  with  the  dew  of  love, 

To  thee  alone  do  look. 

"On  thy  rosebud  cheeks 
Girlhood's  sweetest  smiles 
In  brightest  hope  do  beam. 

"And  here  is  a  combination  of  grammar,  morality, and  melody  equally 
noticeable: 

"On  thy  fair  finger,  lovely  maiden, 

L»t  there  no  jewel  ever  be 
If  character  be  p-it  at  stake 
For  the  diamond  ring  he  gives  thee. 

"Further  extracts  are  perhaps  unnecessary.  We  consider  that  those 
\ve  have  made  are  abundantly  sufficient  to  support  J.  Gordon  Coogler's 
candidacy  for  the  title  of  American  laureate.  There  have  been  native 
p  >cts  deserving  of  recognition.  Longfellow,  Whittier.  Bryant.  Holmes, 
Lovell— all  these  did  fair  work,  'but  they  have  passed  from  our  midst.' 
Where  are  we  to  look  for  one  who  shall  celebrate  American  love,  morals, 
and  patriotism?  There  is  but  one  answer  to  the  question.  J.  Gordon 
C  >ogler,of  Columbia.  South  Carolina,  is  alone  worthy  of  being  crowned 
with  wreaths  of  bay.  What  his  future  is  to  be  is  best  expressed  in  his 
own  words  (never  borrowed  'intentionally  from  any  author'): 

"On  every  hill  top.  far  and  near. 
He'll  sing  that  sinful  hearts  might  hear 

His  sweet  refrain ; 
All  men  will  bow  before  his  face. 
Whose  winning  smiles  and  perfect  grace, 

Will  dispel  all  pain!" 


Extracts  from  a  page  of  editorial  review  of  my  third 
volume,  contained  in  "PucK,"  Nov.  7,  18!)4,  entitled, 

"THE  GENIUS  OF  GOOGLER. 

"\Ve  have  received  a  little  volume  entitled  'Poems  by  J,  Gordon  Coog- 
ler,  Columbia,  South  Carolina.'  with  a  request  from  the  author  to  "please 
notice/  Book  reviews  are  not  in  our  line,  but  a  careful  study  of  these 
p  HMiis  has  convinced  us  that  their  gifted  author  is  really  in  need  of  some 
fearless  criticism,  and  he  shall  have  it.  Although  we  may  be  frank  to  the 
verge  of  severity,  it  must  be  understood  that  we  have  no  wish  to  1>elittle 
the  undoubted  genius  of  Mr.  Coogler.  Rather  would  we  indicate  seem 
lier  angles  and  free  it  from  what  we  feel  sure  is  a  taint  of  insincerity. 
*  *  *  * 

'•\Ve  repeat,  that  we  do  not  wish  to  be  needlessly  harsh  with  Mr.  Goog 
le'-,  naught  but  a  stern  sense  of  justice  and  the  conviction  that  we  maybe 

of  use  to  him  prompts  us  to  score  him Here,  for  instance,  is  the 

influence,  of  the  improper  Mr,  Swinburne; 

*'I  could  n't  but  love  her  snowy  neck, 
In  beauty  grand  without  a  speck 

Or  trace  at  all ; 

And  looking  then  at  her  pretty  feet, 
I  praised  that  lower  gift  complete 

And  very  small, 

'•Like  the  leaves  of  the  summer  rose 
Were  her  pink  cheeks  and  pretty  nost', 

Just  simply  grand. 
"And  again  : 

"Many  a  Sabbath  hour  I've  sfh>nt 

With  Maud  beside  my  knee, 
(lax  ing  o'er  the  distant  hills 
On  the  banks  of  the  Congaree, 

"Many  a  balmy  kiss  I've  stolen 

From  precious  li()s  too  pure  forme", 
While  caressing  lovely  little  Maud 
On  the  banks  of  the  Oongaree, 

**\Ve  will  not  say  that  the  tone  of  these  verses  is  immoral,  fmt  surely 
it  is  not  elevating  and  ennobling.  It  is  too  suggestive, 

"Hen-  are  some  detached  bits  that  show  unmistakably  the  baneful 
domination  of  Robert  Browning: 

"1  feel  like  some  lone  deserted  lad 

Standing  on  the  shore  of  life's  great  otvait, 
Gastiiitf  pebbles  in  its  billows, 
As  it'  to  excite  some  past  emotion. 


"There's  nothing  in  life  to  live  for, 

E.tcept  it  be  sorrow  and  pain  ; 
Hut  there's  more  in  death  than  dying 
To  simply  exist  again. 

"It  is  in  his  p.>enn  dealing  with  death  that  Mr.  Coogler  strikes  his 
truest  notr,  Here  Is  a  fragment  from  'Two  Lf>vedOnes  in  Heaven  ;  writ 
ten  on  the  death  of  two  1  >vely  girls  who  passed  away  a  short  time  since 
in  this  city.' : 

"Their  days  were  too  few  to  be  ended  so  soon 
By  death's  cold  hand  ere  the  fullness  of  noon  ; 
And  e'en  tho'  fever  was  burning  their  cheek 
Of  their  heavenly  home  they  did  frequently  speak. 

*  *  *  * 

"Wretched  tast:i  we  think  is  Shown  in  a  >me  -Lines  to  Byron.' : 

•'Oh,  thou  immortal  Byron. 
Tay  grand,  inspired  genius 

Let  no  man  dare  to  smother; 
May  all  that  was  good  within  thee 
Be  attributed  to  heaven  ; 

All  that  was  evil — to  thy  mother. 

"Byron's  mother  may  not  have  been  an  admirable  woman  ;  she  may 
have  had  the  gravest  of  faults,  but  she  died  many  years  ago,  and  we  pro 
test  that  J.  Uordon  Coogler  has  no  right  to  rake  up  any  old  scandal  about 
her.  especially  in  an  ode  to  her  talented  son.  Let  the  dead  past,  we  say, 
bury  its  dead.  L"t  us  not,  Mr.  Coogler,  be  cruel  and  vindictive  toward 
One  who,  Whatever  her  failings,  was  once  a  woman.  Remember  your 
own  'Lines  to  Worn  in.'  on  p.  o7: 

"Oh.  that  inexhaustible  subject 

Filled  with  celestial  lire 
On  which  no  seraph's  song  can  cease, 
No  poet's  pen  expire. 

"Many  of  his  verses  hint  at  a  past  eventful  with  grave  transgressions: 

••There  was  a  time  when  the  fire  of  youth 

Burned  deep  within  my  wayward  soul; 
I  often  stroll'd  o'er  pleasant  hills 
Where  timid  mortals  seldom  stroll. 

"Here  and  there  is  indicated  an  almost  offensive  vein  of  frivolity;  bufc 
this  is  more  than  atoned  for  by  a  spirit  of  manliness  which  is  admirably 
Shown  in  the  following: 

"A  MISTAKE. 

"The  poem  containing  three  verses,  published  in  my  second  book,  and 
entitled  'That  Christmas  Card,'  are  the  only  verses  in  my  life  which  I 


10 

regret  ever  having  written.     The  entire  poem  is  a  mistake,  caused  by 
being  too  hasty. 

'•I  w.vald  willingly  forfeit  my  right  to  the  Muse 

If  I  only  this  day  could  recall 
The  verses  I  wrote  in  thrt  heat  of  my  pission, 
Which  I  c  m.sider  the  meanest  of  all. 

'•A  manly  and  c ,mrage«ms  amende,  Mr.  C  >ogler ;  you  are  the  better 
for  having  nnde  it. 

••Asa  frontispiece1  to  his  little  volume,  Mr.  Coogler  prints  a  tasteful, 
half-tone  engraving  of  himself.  He  is  a  fine,  manly-looking  young  fel 
low  of  some  twenty-nine  or  thirty,  with  a  broad,  high  forehead,  earnest 
deep-set  eyes,  prominent  ears,  and  a  small  dark  mustache.  He  is  dressed 
in  a  neit,  well-fitting  suit  of  s  >me  dark  shade.  Of  the  quality  of  Mr. 
C  >.)gler's  verse,  we  p.vfer  not  to  sp  >ak.  As  he  says  his  style  and  his 
sentiments  are  his  own  :  and  who  are  we  that  we  should  say  them  well 
or  ill?" 


Extracts  from  nearly  a  page  of  editorial  review  of  my 
fourth  volume  in  the  '-LITERARY  DIGEST/'  (X.  Y.,)  Nov.  2, 
1895  : 

••SOME  PURELY  ORIGINAL  YERSE. 

"Such  are  tin*  'p  >em^'  of  .1.  G  rnlon  C  >;>gler,  of  Columbia,  S.  C..  whose 
new  book,  being  his  fourth  voluni".  has  just  reached  us.  In  his  'Intro 
duction,'  Mr.  C  >ogler  says :  'In  issuing  this  volume  I  shall  repeat  the 
words  contained  in  til'1  introduction  in  my  last  volume :  My  style  and 
my  sentiments  are  MY  o\\*x.  purely  original.'  We  doubt  if  any  one  will 
question  the  truth  of  Mr.  C  >;>gler's  strongly  emp'iasi/.ed  assertion.  We 
admit  that  in  the  few  choice  extracts  which  we  here  present  there  is 
something  which  calls  to  mind,  in  a  way,  certain  of  the  masters,  but 
there  is  no  sign  of  imitation.  One  cannot  help  thinking  how  Dr.  Holmes 
or  M  r.  I>  >well  would  have  revelled  in  these  rich  stanzas,  without  ever 
accusing  the  author  of  plagiari/ing  their  own  or  any  other  poet's  lines. 

"Mr.  C  )ogler  will  doubtless  have  his  adverse  critics,  as  all  poets  have. 
Indeed,  he  has  anticipated  such  in  the  following  lines : 

'•TO   TIIK    YOfNO    TN.irST    CRITIC. 

''Challenge  me  to  light  on  the  open  field, 

And  hurl  at  my  head  the  fiery  dart, 
Rather  than  belittle  the  gentle  muse 
That  ushers  from  this  lonely  heart. 


11 


'•Mr.  Coogler  cannot  properly  be  called  an  optimist,  for  he  has  written 
the  saddest  kind  of  verse,  yet  he  occasionally  trills  a  merry  lay,  such  as 
'On  the  Cars  to  Shandon.'  And  hy  the  way  he  has  in  this  dainty  madri 
gal  entered  quite  a  new  field  of  song.  It  has  been  prophesied  IJjftt  the 
poetry  of  the  future  would  treat  on  scientific  themes;  here  we  have  it. 
*  *  *  * 

'•The  poet's  deep  earnestness  of  purpose  is  expressed  in  this  quatrain  : 

"  'Tis  better  this  hand  was  silent, 

This  mind  obscure  and  weak. 
Than  it  should  pen  a  single  line 
These  lips  would  dare  not  speak. 

"And  the  following  shows  to  what  lofty  height  of  diction  his  muse  is 
capable  of  soaring: 

"Oh.  character!  thou  ever  art 

An  holy  and  an  honor'd  thing; 
More  valuable  than  life  itself, 
More  costly  than  a  diamond  ring." 


"THE  BOOKMAN,"  of  New  York,  in  nearly  a  column  of 
review  of  my  fifth  volume,  says  : 

"We  were  going  to  write  quite  a  lengthy  review  of  this  inimitable  little 
Volume  ;  but  the  author  has  made  such  a  thing  practically  impossible  by 
reprinting  in  the  Introduction  a  collection  of  the  comment  and  com 
mendations  already  bestowed  upon  his  verse  by  the  most  eminent  critics 
from  Bill  Nye  to  the  literary  editor  of  MVNSEY'S.  These  comments  so  per 
fectly  anticipate  all  we  should  ourselves  have  said  as  to  make  it  need 
less  for  us  to  do  more  than  subscribe  to  them  as  expressing  our  senti 
ments  exactly 

"We  trust  that  this  fifth  volume  of  his  verse  may  have  many  success 
ors  ;  and  we  are  pretty  sure  it  will,  for  a  little  poem  we  cull  from  page  L8, 
is  fraught  with  golden  promise  for  the  future: 

"You  may  as  well  try  to  change  the  course 
Of  yonder  sun 

To  north  and  south, 
As  to  try  to  subdue  by  criticism 
This  heart  of  verse, 

Or  close  this  mouth." 


12 

Extracts    from  three  pages  of  editorial  review  in  "TUB 
NICKEL  MAGA/INE,"  Boston,  Mass.,  May,  1897,  entitled, 

-A  GENIUS  IN  BLOOM. 

"It  is  much  the  fashion  nowadays  to  be  loftily  impatient  with  Ameri 
can  poets.  Indeed  one  hears  from  those  who  should  know  hotter  that 
America  has  no  p  oot  worthy  of  the  name.  But  how  insipidly  conven 
tional,  how  ignobly  superficial  is  the  dictum!  For  America  has  poets 
in  abundance  who  sing  potently  In  all  the  voices;  hut  too  often  they 
charm  only  a  small  circle,  and  are  tricked  by  circumstance  out  of  that 
larger  audience  to  which  their  genius  and  acquirements  entitle  them. 
Steadfast  in  their  ideals  and  constant  in  effort,  they  reck  little  of  wide 
fame  or  material  rewards;  they  sing  their  lyrics  and  declaim  their 
epics,  and  the  world  may  stop  to  listen  if  it  will.  If  it  will  not — and  too 
often  it  does  not — then  the  world,  not  the  poet,  is  the  loser.  Asa  fine 
typ'»of  these  humbler  bards,  humble  in  pretension,  not  in  achievement, 
we  present  the  name  of  J.  Gordon  Coogler.  of  Columbia,  S.  C.  His  fifth 
and  latest  volume  of  p  >ems  has  just  come  to  us. and  after  reading  it.  we 
hasten  to  do  our  little  toward  dispelling  the  obscurity  with  which  a  per 
verse  fate  lias  hitherto  shrouded  this  genius  of  the  Southland.  Mr. 
C  >ogler.  it  appears,  is  both  a  poet  and  a  practical  printer.  Asa  critic, 
whom  he  quotes  in  the  introduction  to  the  present  volume,  remarks: 
'None  other  can  conduct  his  muse  all  the  way  from  the  frowning  heights 
of  Olympus  to  the  tender  clasp  of  a  half-medium  job  press.'  I'niquo  in 
this  twinship.  the  poet  is  his  own  publisher,  and  that  modesty  which  is 
one  of  his  salient  attributes,  has  prompted  him  to  put  out  all  five  of  his 
volumes  in  unassuming  paper  1  hiding.  The  latest  is  entitled  'Purely 
Original  Verse.'  In  truth,  originality  would  appear  to  be  a  hobby  with  him 
if  so  transcendent  a  genius  may  be  supposed  to  possess  a  thing  so  common. 
•My  style  and  my  sentiments  are  MY  OWN.  purely  original.'  he  insists 
further;  and  an  examination  of  his  work  proves  this  tube  no  idle  boast. 
To  sense  the  full  sweep  of  his  power,  it  may  be  well  to  glance  at  some  of 
his  earlier  work  before  considering  his  latest.  One  is  much  struck  first 
by  the  spirit  of  intrepid,  nay.  alm<  st  aggressive  defiance,  \\  itli  which  he 
dares  the  horde  of  unappreciative  critics: 

-Challenge  me  to  fight  on  the  open  field. 

And  hurl  at  my  head  the  fiery  dart, 

Rather  than  belittle  the  gentle  muse 

That  ushers  from  this  lonely  heart. 


13 

"Next  we  are  permit  ted  to  discover  a  not  unplea  sing  pessimism  joined 
to  a  facility  of  rhyme  that  is  truly  impressive: 

'•Prom  early  youth  to  the  frost  of  age 

Man's  days  have  been  a  mixture 
Of  all  that  constitutes  in  life 
A  dark  and  gloomy  picture. 

'•In  his  adaptation  of  certain  verbs  Coogler  is  both  masterly  and  origi 
nal. 

* 

But  it  is  not  alone  in  grammar  that  Coogler  blazes  new  paths.  In  that 
species  of  analysis  which  is  p.irt  metaphysics  and  part  sentiment.  a,  line 
which  Rohert  Browning  essayed  with  fairly  creditable  results,  Coogler 
is  especially  happy,  as  in  the  following  quotation  : 

"I  feel  like  some  lone,  deserted  lad 

Standing  on  th^  short*  of  life's  great  ocean, 
Casting  pebbles  in  its  billows. 
As  if  to  excite  some  past  emotion. 

*  *  * 

'•C:v>gler's  later  volume  contrasts  pleasantly  with  his  earlier  works. 
It  is  rip^r  and  more  mature.  While  he  consistently  preserves  those  quaint 
Dramatical  involutions  and  twists,  he  sees  with  clearer  eyes,  and  pic 
tures  with  a  firmer  touch  the  great  arcana  of  humanity.  In  'The  Path 
to  Fame.'  the  first  poem  of  this  volume,  he  again  sounds  his  note  of  defi 
ance  to  the  critics,  yet  it  has  a  gentler  resonance  than  his  earlier  chal 
lenge: 

"The  clouds  may  l>e  dark  that  linger  around 
These  feet  as  they  move  in  that  lone  sphere, 

And  the  thorns  be  many  to  pierce  my  heart, 
Yet  'mid  all  these  I've  nothing  to  fear. 

'•Let  critics  assail  my  innocent  muse, 

And  l>elittle  the  name  which  they  ne'er  can  mar, 

Yet  both  shall  shine  from  ihe  hills  of  fame 
Like  the  radiant  light  of  some  sweet  star. 

"While  a  deep-lined  pessimism  may  he  thought  to  color  this  volume, 
it  is  still  far  from  morbid.  Thus,  in  'They  Laid  Her  Down  in  a  Lonely 
<4rave,'  the  sadness  of  the  theme  is  mitigated  by  a  perception  of  the  laws 
of  nature  which  is  l*>th  rational  and  reassuring: 

"They  laid  her  down  while  the  autumn  leaves  wen*  falling, 

In  a  lonely  grave  beside  the  deep  blue  sea; 
Her  angel  spirit  is  now  beyoijd  recalling, 

Ami  her  fair  form  can  ne'er  revisit  you  and  me, 


14 

"To  him  has  come  in  these  ripor  years  a  tolerant  appreciation  of  the 
virtues  and  failings  of  the  Eternal  Feminine: 

•"Some  day,  when  the  gloomy  shades  of  life  shall  helve  borne 
The  golden  sunbeams  from  'round  your  gentle  feet, 

Then  you  will  think  of  the  love  which  you  have  spurn'd   • 
On  my  hearts  pure  shrine  so  gentle  and  So  sweet. 
*  *  *  * 

"In  'Woman's  Folly'  he  scathingly  yet  justly  rebukes  her  for  that  she 
judges  man  too  often  by  his  raiment; 

"Alas !  poor  woman,  with  eyes  of  sparkling  fire, 
Thy  heart  is  often  won  by  mankind's  gay  attire ; 
So  weak  thou  art.  so  very  weak  at  best. 
Thou  canst  not  look  beyond  a  satin-lined  vest. 

'•I've  seen  thee  ofttimes  cast  a  AVinning  glance 
And  be  carried  away — as  it  were  within  a  trance- 
By  the  g;i.y  apparel  of  some  dishonest  youth, 
Whose  bosom  heaved  with  not  a  single  truth. 

"How  true  it  is  that  woman  often  neglects  to  use  the  X-ray  of  her  (jrod- 
given  intuition  to  pierce  the  sheen  of  n  specious  waistcoat  and  survey 
the  holtownefls  it  hides;  and  may  we  not  feel  a  generous  sympathy  for 
this  poet  who  has,  all  too  plttinly,  seen  true  worth  passed  by  for  a  gaudy 
exterior?  But  though  he  is  often  judicial  to  the  verge  of  harshness,  he 
does  not  lack  a  certain  winning  chivalry  i 

"(io  shatter  the  walls  of  some  beautiful  city 

That  is  noted  for  grandeur  and  fame, 
Rather  than  cast  ti,  suggestive  remark 

To  destroy  ft  woman's  fair  name. 

"And  again : 

"She's  a  polished,  noble  lady. 

Highly  learned,  industrious,  too, 
And  her  sunny  hand  is  faithful 
In  what  e'er  it  finds  to  do. 

"And  not  infrequently  he  shows  tx>th  chivalry  and  humility: 

"Maud — for  her  gentle  name  was  Maud — 
Wore  many  smiles,  and  they  were  s£d; 

A  thousand  virtues  she  retained, 
Many  of  which  I  never  had. 

"But  it  is  where  his  pen  punctures  social  and  political  bubbles  fmtf  h£ 
-soars  to  his  loftiest  heights.  Instance  the:  delicate  scorn  tinged  with 
yearning  pity  of  the  following.  Lines: 


15 

"Alas!  Carolina!  Carolina!  fair  land  of  my  birth. 

Thy  fame  will  lie  wafted  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea 
As  being  the  greatest  educational  centre  on  earth. 

At  the  cost  of  men's  blood  thro'  thy  'one  X'  whiskey. 

"TAVO  very  large  elephants  thou  hast  lately  installed. 

Where  thy  sons  and  thy  daughters  are  invited  to  come, 
And  learn  to  he  mentally  and  physically  strong, 

By  the  solemn  proceeds  of  thy  'innocent'  rum. 

••We  have  tried  thus  briefly  to  give  some  adequate  notion  of  the  genius 
«>f  J.  Gordon  Coogler.  His  own  low-looking,  money-grabbing  genera 
tion  may  not  ace  >rd  him  his  due;  but  we  are  confident  that  posterity 

•will  not  fail  in  this  respect 

"Verily,  we  may  say  of   this  master  of  his  own  peculiar  style,  in  clos 
ing  this  all-toe  .-inadequate  review  of  his  works: 
"Oh  !  worthy,  worthy  Bard! 

Of  loftiest  melody  the  puissant  bugler! 
We've  much  to  cheer  us  e'en  tho'  times  be  bad. 
While  our  literary  pantheon  contains  a  Coogler." 

"GoDEY's  MAGAZINE,"  (that  'Edinburgh'  of  the  present 
time)  delights  in  condemning  the  work  of  young  authors, 
as  'belonging  to  the  class  which  neither  gods  nor  men  are 
said  to  permit.'  For  variety's  sake,  uot  truth  and  justice,  I 
am  glad  that  it  exists,  and  I  can  hear  from  it  occasionally. 

Here  are  a  few  extracts  from  nearly  a  column  of  review 
it  accorded  my  works  : 

"Mr.  Cimgler  has  just  about  become  a  national  figure  in  contemporary 
literature 

"Mr.  C  >ogler,  like  Horace  and  others,  is  sublimely  assured  of  his  own 
immortality. 

*  *  *  * 

"And  yet  in  the  midst  of  all  this  hopeless  banality  and  ignorance  he 
fame  near  writing  something  v<  ry  fine  in  this  six-line  stan/a — an 
tmdecbnal  couplet  it  is  really: 

'•Ah.  Daisy,  so  lovely  in  thy  gentleness. 

Wio  would  not  press  thv  snowy  hand 
Until  thy  cheeks  grew  red; 
Who  would  not  live  in  the  balmy  breeze 

That  gentlv  wafts  the  silken  curls 
On  thy  angelic  head/' 


The  "CHAP  BOOK,"  of  Chicago,  Til.,  in  quite  a  lengthy  re- 
vie\v  of  my  fifth  volume,  says  : 

"  'Impossible,'  is  the  titleof  Mr.  J.  Gordon  Coogler's  apt  poem,  big  with 

undiluted  truth. 

*  *  *  * 

'•But  it  is  after  all  to  some  of  Mr.  Coogler's  five  volumes  that  the  illr.- 
minati  have  been,  .  .  accustomed  to  turn  for  diversion.  He  takes  for 
his  theme,  'Maud,  the  Mill,  and  the  Lily,'  and  the  following  Stanza  re 
sults; 

'•There  flows  the  same  familiar  stream, 

Wliose  waters  I  oft  have  drink; 
And  the  old  mill-pond,  from  whose  dark  edge 
I  oft,  so  oft  have  shrank. 

'•Or  says, -Farewell  Sweet  College  Girl !'  thus: 

"Farewell !  ye  milk-white  dove,  farewell! 

If  on  earth  we  meet  no  more, 
May  in  that  snow-white  throng  of  love 

We  meet  on  yonder  Shore. 

-But  it  is  not  alone  in  the  young  woman  of  grace  and  culture  that  the 
poet  sees  a  suitable  theme  :  witness  his  lines  to  'The  Working  Girl : 

'"Sweet  working  girl — tho'  Fate  has  destined  thy  fair  hand 

To  labor  in  place  of  a  wayward  brother. 
Yet  Heaven  will  reward  the*1  for  thy  honest  tcil 

In  support  of  thy  aged,  widowed  mother." 


Extracts  from  nearly  a  column  of  editorial  review  of  my 
works  in  the  "CLEVELAND  (Ohio)  WORLD": 

"SOUTH  CAROLINA'S  POET. 

'•We  beg  leave  to  acknowledge  a  volume  of  poems  by  .L  Gordon  Coog- 
ler,  the  poet  laureate  of  South  Carolina.  Mr.  Coogler  not  only  writer 
his  own  poems,  but  he  sets  them  into  type  and  sees  that  they  are  projA- 
erly  printed  in  his  own  printing  office.  His  home  is  at  Columbia,  South 
Carolina,  and  this  is  the  fifth  volume  of  his  poetic  efforts  he  has  given  to 
the  public 

'•The  econiums  vet  praise  that  have   been  heaped  u;*>u  Mr,  Ctx>g,ler  by 


17 

the  pres\3  of  the  crwnti'y  have  boon  most  flattering,  to  him,  and  highly 
enjoyable  to  everybody  else. 

••Mr.  Uoogler's  style  is  certainly  simple,  and  not  bound  down  by  any 
iron  clad  rales  of  prosody  or  meter.  The  rapturous  beauty  of  the  senti 
ment  which  is  'purely  original'  oozes  forth  from  the  almost  inspired 
Words  of  tliis  p  >et  of  South  C  irolina.  What  can  be  more  delicate  in  its 
Simplicity,  deep  in  its  m  mil,  or  char  ning  in  its  whole  conception  than 
the  following  entitled  "Woman's  Folly.' : 

'•Alas!  poor  woman,  with  eyes  of  sparkling  fire, 
Thy  heart  is  often  won  by  mankind's  gay  attire  ; 
80  weak  thou  art.  so  very  weak  at  best, 
Thou  canst  Hot  look  beyond  a  satin-lined  vest. 

'•I've  seen  thee  ofttimes  cast  a  winning  glance 
And  be  carried  away — as  it  were  within  a  trance— 
By  the  gay  apparel  of  some  dishonest  youth, 
Whose  bosom  heaved  with  not  a  single  truth. 

'•Alas!  for  thee — I  would  that  thou  couldst  learn 

That  love  does  not  in  such  quicksilver  burn  ; 

That  he  wh:>  lurks  beside  thy  virtuous  pith. 

When  thy  good  name  is  grme,  will  gaze  on  thee  and  laugh. 

'•For  what  care  he.  whom  thy  fair  hand  would  take, 
If  in  after  years  thy  gentle  heart  should  break; 
No  tears  of  remorse  would  damp  his  wayward  eyes- 
Such  tears  can  only  come  ere  the  conscience  dies. 

'•It  is  our  regret  that  it  is  not  possible  to  give  many  examples  of  Mr. 
Googlei's  poetry,  but  space  does  not  permit.  Yet  one  more  sample  might 
Well  be  included.  It  is  made  up  of  two  ttanzas  of  a  poem  entitled,  "The 
Path  to  Fame,'  and  indicates  that  Mr.  Coogler  is  adamant  to  the  shafts 
of  criticism  if  any  should  perchance  be  aimed  in  his  direction  : 

'•Let  critics  assail  my  innocent  muse. 

And  belittle  the  name  which  they  ne'er  can  mar, 
Yet  both  shall  shine  from  the  hills  of  fame 

Like  the  radiant  light  of  some  sweet  star. 

"Tho1  the  course  I  have  taken  lie  lonely  and  dark, 

Pitied,  condemned,  by  one  and  by  all ; 
Yet  the  star  of  ambition  is  glowing  for  rue, 

Tho'  I  stumble  alas!  I  ne'er  shall  fall. 


18 

'•Is  it  any  wonder  that  South  Carolina's  piet  is  able  to  sell  2.000  copies 
of  his  "purely  original"  verse  at  50  cents  a  copy  and  then  write  more  ?" 


Extracts  from  over  a  column  of  editorial  review  of  my 
works  in  "THE  PROVIDENCE  (R.  T.)  JOURNAL": 

"Genius  will  out.  Even  the  seclusion  of  Columbia,  S.  C.,  cannot  hide 
it.  Mr.  .T.  Gordon  C:>ogler  has  issued  four  volumes  of  poetry,  and  has 
had  the  honor  of  long  reviews  from  Puck  and  other  serious  organs  of 
criticism,  and  yet  we  have  waited  for  his  fifth  volume  to  make  his  ac 
quaintance.  The  loss  is  eurs  and  we  hasten  to  repair  it.  assuring  our 
readers  with  the  utmost  earnestness  of  which  we  are  capable  that  a  new 
fount  of  the  purest  literary  delight  awaits  them  in  the  pages  of  the  mod 
est  paper-covered  book,  which  the  author  has  sent  us  with  the  request, 
•Please  notice.'  Who  could  fail  to  notice  a  new  note  in  the  poetry  of 
the  time  so  penetrating  as  Coogler's?  If  he  sang  on  some  lone  isle  in  the 
Pacific  he  would  make  himself  heard. 

***** 

"There  is  naturally  much  about  the  fair  sex  in  this  little  volume;  the, 
great  poetic  heart  has  ever  a  keen  longing  to  love  and  to  be  loved.  Lines 
to  'A  Golden  Haired  Girl,'  to  one  whose  'gentle  name  was  Maud,'  'To 
Lilian.'  lines 'written  on  hearing  a  lady,  speaking  of  her  past  hopes, 
say,  'I  am  now  on  the  verge  of  womanhood  ;  only  eighteen  summers  old  ; 
but.  oh,  how  unsteady  I  stand' — things  like  these  cannot  be  found  in 
ordinary  volumes  of  verse.  One  of  the  p:>ems  which  has  interested  us 
most  gives  a  charming  picture  of  social  life  in  the  fair  Southern  city. 
From  the  beginning — 

"Down  beside  a  clump  of  roses, 

Just  beyond  the  garden  wall, 
Sat  a  little  brown-eyed  maiden, 

Waiting  for  her  beau  to  call. 

"Through  the  passionate  longing  of  the  heroine  for  the  hero's  arrival — 

"Oh.  I  hear  his  footsteps  coming, 

See  the  light  of  his  cigar. 
How  it  shines  within  the  darkness 

Like  some  softly  glowing  star. 
***** 

"But  Mr.  Coogler  does  not  confine  himself  to  the  fair  ones  who  move 
high  in  social  circles.  'Sweet  working  girl,'  he  cries: 


19 

"I  love  to  view  the  happy  smiles 
Upon  t!iy  fair  and  beaming  i'aye. 

''And  then  he  adds  this  word  of  encouragement : 

"Sweet  working  girl— tho'  Fate  has  destined  thy  fair  hand 

To  labor  in  place  of  a  wayward  brother, 
Yet  Heaven  will  reward  the"  for  thy  honest  toil 
In  support  of  thy  aged,  widow'd  mother. 

***** 

"We  must  stop  somewhere,  fascinating  as  Mr.  C oogler's  volume  is. 
And  we  slull  stop  without  a  word  of  comment.  Why  gild  re  lined  gold 
or  paint  th^  lily  ?'' 


Extracts  from  editorials  in  "THE  (N\  Y.)  SUN1'  : 

'•Our  esteemed  contemporary,  the  'Carolina  Spartan'  imparts  the  glad 
liews  that  J.  Gordon  Ooogler,  the  poet  laureate  of  Columbia,  has  pub 
lished  the  fifth  volume  of  his  poems.  J.  Gordon  Google r,  as  his  admirer 
Well  remarks  is  'bold  enough  to  attempt  flights  heretofore  unes.sayed, 
and  he  writes  verse  as  no  other  man  has  ever  written.'  The  country 

owes  much   to  J»  Gordon  C  oogler No  cotton  Is  softer  or  gentler 

than  are  his  Arcadian  songs.    J.  Gordon  Ooogler  has  often  been  called 
the  Sir  Edward  Arnold  of  Columbia." 

Again  "THE  SUN"  says  : 

'•J.  Gordon  C  oogler  of  Columbia,  the  great  bard  of  the  Palmetto  State, 
is  described  by  our  contemporary,  the  'Galveston  News/ 'as  having  a 
fine  mouth,  a  set  to  either  jaw  that  indicates  great  physical  firmness, 
the  eye  of  an  eagle,  the  nose  (  f  a  Roman.'  This  is  not  meant  to  be  un 
just,  but  It  is  not  entirely  exact.  Mr.  J.  Gordon  Coogler  has  the  eye  of 
a  falcon  rather  than  that  of  the  eagle,  the  nose  of  a  pelasgian.  the  mouth 
of  a  nightingale,  the  chin  of  a  lark,  and  his  jaw  is  melodious  like  a  harp 
in  flesh.  His  sentiments  are  as  sound  and  his  conjugations  are  as  origi 
nal  as  his  lineaments  are  imposing.  Who  except  Coogler  is  capable  of 
Kinging: 

"On  thy  fair  finger,  lovely  maiden, 

Let  there  no  jewel  ever  be 
If  character  be  put  at  stake 
For  the  diamond  ring  he  gives  thee." 

And  again  "THE  SUN"  says  : 

"Mr.  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  the  sweet  singer  of  the  South  Carolina  cotton 


20 

iields,  must  look  to  his  laurels.  Another  and  a  rival  poet  has  appeared 
in  Mr,  Lewis  M.  Elshemus,  whose  native  wood  notes  wild,  sounded  in 
two  volumes  entitled  respectively,  'Lady  Vere,'  and  'Mammon— A  Spirit 
Song'  (Eastman  Lewis),  have  much  of  the  artless  and  unfettered  origi 
nality  that  have  made  the  Southern  singer  famous.  We  miss,  perhaps, 
the  infinite  variety  and  range  of  vision  that  distinguish  the  inimitable 
Coogler." 

"THE  ATLANTA  CONSTITUTION"  says  : 

"Editor  Dana,  of  'THE  SUN'  is  an  ardent  Cooglerite." 


"THE  KANSAS  CITY  (Mo.)  TIMES"  says  : 

"Some  of  Mr.  Coogler's  work  has  been  highly  praised  by  a  number  of 
critics,  and  in  his  last  volume  he  amply  proves  his  poetic  temperament. 
A  number  of  his  verses  show  true  poetic  expression.  The  fault  with 
many  of  his  verses  lies  in  a  hasty  composition.  From  the  good  verses, 
Mr.  Coogler  proves  that  he  can  write  well,  so  there  is  little  excuse  for 
the  bad  ones."  . 


UTHE  INDIANAPOLIS  (Indiana)  JOURNAL"  says  : 

"From  the  Sunny  South  comes  the  fifth  volume  of  Mr.  .1.  Gordon 
Coogler's  'Purely  Original  Verse.'  It  must  indeed  1-e  a  captious  reader 
who  could  not.  frankly  admire  the  charming  simplicity  and  pastoral 
beauty  of  Mr.  Coogler's  poetry. 

From  quite  a  lengthy  review  in  "THE  HARTFORD  (Conn.) 
COUBANT": 

"The  fifth  volume  of  'Purely  Original  Verse,'  by  J.  Gordon  Coogler  of 
Columbia,  S.  C.,  is  one  of  those  books  which  lend  themselves  so  readily 
to  quotation  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  refrain  from  transcribing  wholo 
p-\ges.  Munsey's  Magazine  and  Puck  were  unable  to  resist  lengthy  edi 
torial  comment. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"But  we  cannot  allow  ourseives  to  be  led  from  page  to  page  gatherfng 
blossoms.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  author  has  seen  life,  that  he  knows 
friendship  to  be 


21 


•'No  Spirit  from  the  heavens. 
Nor  the  regions  of  the  dead; 

But  a  kind  of  unknown  demon 
Manufactured  in  the  head/' 


From  "THE  MILWAUKEE  (Wis.)  JOURNAL": 

"Mr.  Cooler's  verses  remind  one  of  the  choice  specimens  of  Mr.  Gifted 
Hopkins'  muse  which  Dr.  Holmes  has  given  us  in  'The  Guardian  Angel.1 
In  his  introduction  to  the  little  hook,  which  is  the  fifth  volume  of  Mr. 
C  >ogler's  work,  the  p:>et  gratefully  acknowledges  the  many  compli 
mentary  notices  which  his  previous  volumes  have  received.  Extracts 
are  given  from  reviews  which  have  appeared  in  Puck  and  other  journals. 
Bill  Nye  is  numbered  among  the  admirers  of  Mr.  Coogler  who  have 
written  facetiously  and  appreciatively  of  his  muse.  Among  the  most 
touching  of  the  p->ems  we  may  mention:  'Ah,  Daisy';  'Other  Days;' 
'Think  of  Me;'  -Willie  is  Gone;'  'She's  111,'  and  'The  Mysterious  Tear.' 
In  spite  of  the  allurements  of  fame,  the  p  >et  maintains  a  Incoming 
modesty  of  spirit,  as  the  following  lines  show: 

"If  I  should  rise  to  loftv  heights, 

A  humble  heart  shall  be  thereon  ; 
And  though  you  may  be  far  below. 

Remember,  you  I  shall  not  scorn." 


From  over  a  column  of  review  in  "THE  PITTSBURG  (Pu.) 
TIMES": 

"Here  is  a  p  >etic  outfit  to  begin  with  that  has  scarcely  ever  been  sur 
passed,  and  it  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  the  volume  Mr.  Coogler 
requests  'TiiK  TIMES'  to  notice  is  the  fifth  that  has  come  from  his  in 
spired  pen. 

*  *  *  * 

••The  following  stan/a  which  is  put  in  as  a  'filler'  at  the  bottom  of  one 
of  the  pages  expresses  the  deep  and  permanent  sadness  of  his  great 
mind: 

"In  the  deepest  recesses  of  my  heart  there's  a  gloom 

Which  keeps  me  eternally  sad; 

Yet  the  smiles  of  my  face  and  the  words  of  my  mouth 
Are  always  cheerful  and  glad. 

"That  he  has  a  great  mind  for  the  play  of  human  emotions  is  certified 
in  the  following  fragment: 


'•The  mind  that  cannot  create  worlds, 

Make  hills  and  mountains  great  or  small. 
And  streams  and  lakes,  and  thus  the  like, 
Is  to  my  mind — no  MIND  at  all. 

*  *  * 

"In  spite  of  his  constitutional  sadness  he  sings  much  of  love ;  but  it 
is  unrequitted  love.  Notwithstanding  his  love  for  women  lie  if}  severe 
upon  their  follies,  and  thus  expresses  his  condemnation  : 

•'Alas !  poor  woman,  with  eyes  of  sparkling  fire. 
Thy  heart  is  often  won  by  mankind's  gay  attire  ; 
So  weak  thou  art,  so  very  weak  at  best, 
Thou  canst  not  look  beyond  a  S'.itin-lined  vest. 

"But  it  would  be  futile  within  the  limit  of  this  review  to  attempt  to 
point  out  all  the  beautiful  notes  of  this  dulcet-voiced  singer  of  Dixie. 
We  must  leave  something  for  the  reader/' 


Extracts  from  a  lengthy  review  in  "THE  NEWARK  (N.  J. ) 
ADVERTISER": 

"Love!  To  Avhat  heights  of  rapture,  and  abysses  of  despair  does  the 
tenderest  yet  cruelest  of  passion  not  raise  or  plunge  this  honey-lipped 

singer  of  the  Congaree  ?  : 

"Oh.  that  Inexhaustible  subject 

.  Filled  with  celestial  fire 
On  which  no  seraph  song  can  cease, 
No  poet's  pen  expire. 

*  *  *  * 

"Mr.  Coogler's  opinions  on  subjects  on  which  poete  have  written  be 
fore,  but  never  as  he  does  are  interesting.  Here  are  some  of  the  pearl w 
of  thought  he  scatters  broadcast  with  prodigal  hand: 

"Oh,  character!  thou  ever  art 

An  holy  and  an  honor'd  thing; 
More  valuable  than  life  itself, 

More  costly  than  a  diamond  ring1. 
*  *   '  *  *  * 

"All  heaven  has  no  water  soft  enough, 

Nor  earth  no  cleansing  soap, 
That  can  wasli  the  crimson  from  the  heart 

That  destroys  a  woman's  hope. 

"Observe  how  deftly  the  plainest  every-day  thing,  such  as  soap,  i.-i 
Woven  into  the  web  of  verse.  Mr.  Coogler's  range  of  subjects  is  as  illimi 
table  as  the  infinite.  Versatility  is  his  forte.  Sow,  here,  now  there,  he 
neems  everywhere  at  once." 


23 

Extracts  from  a  column  of  review  in  "THE  LOUISVILLE 
(Ky.)  COURIER  JOURNAL": 

"The  poets  of  these  degenerate  days  are,  as  a  rule,  a  meek,  downtrod 
den  lot.  whom  one  may  ridicule  with  impunity.  One  notable  exception, 
however,  is  .1.  Gordon  (Joogler,  of  Columbia,  S.  C.,  the  distincton  be 
tween  him  and  the  general  run  of  singers  being  so  marked  as  to  lead  to 
grave  doubts  as  to  his  being  a  genuine  poet.  Would  a  genuine  modern 
po  %t  have  had  the  temerity  to  address  such  a  stanza  as  this  to  the  critics  ? : 

'•Challenge  me  to  fight  on  the  open  field, 

And  hurl  at  my  head  the  fiery  dart, 
Rather  than  belittle  the  gentle  muse 

That  ushers  from  this  lonely  heart. 

"Yet  in  this  very  boldness  lies  the  secret  of  Mr.  Coogler's  success. 
*  *  *  * 

''It  is  but  fair  to  state  that   here  and   there   lines  of  beauty  are  to  be 

found  in  the  work His  position    is  unique.     His  work  has  been 

widely  read,  and  has  been  given  more  attention  by  some  of  the  leading 
newspapers  and  periodicals  than  that  of  men  of  real  genius.  In  so  far  as 
being  known  as  a  writer  is  concerned,  he  is  famous."' 


"TiiE  MINNEAPOLIS  (Minn.)  JOURNAL"  in  a  column  of 
review  says  : 

'"Purely  Original  Verse.'  by  a  Pouth  Carolina  poet.  J.Gordon  Coogler. 
It  is  really  exhilarating  to  read  such  a  title.  What  the  reading  public  in 
this  country  lias  long  been  looking  for  is  a  new  American  poet  who  will 
give  them 'purely  original  verse.'  The  information  is  also  given  that  this 
is  tlie  fifth  volume  of  Mr.  Coogler's  p:>etry.  .  .  .  He  has  disposed  of  over 
2.000  copies,  and  adds:  'My  style  and  my  sentiments  are  my  own.  purely 
original.'  And  this  South  C  irolina  genius  does  not  forget  to  give  us  a 
full-p-ige  portrait  of  himself,  a  young  man  with  dark  hair,  carefully 
pointed  mustache,  sitting  at  a  table,  his  eyes 'with  tine  frenzy  rolling,' 
writing  one  of  his -purely  original  poem.-.'  Not  only  this,  but  Mr.  Coog 
ler  gives  a  picture  of  -the  author's  early  home  near  Columbia.  S.  C..'  the 

birth  place  of  this  c  xtraordinary  genius. 

***** 

"L  't  critics  assail  my  innocent  muse. 

And  belittle  the  name  which  they  ne'er  can  mar, 
Yet  both  shall  shine  from  the  hills  of  fame 

Like  the  radiant  light  of  some  sweet  star. 


24 


"This  is  bumptiuous,  if  not  heroic;  but  Mr.  C  >ogler  is  more  p  >sitivo 
alx>ut  his  fame  when  he  says: 

"You  may  as  well  try  to  change  the  course 
Of  yonder  sun 

To  north  and  south. 
As  to  try  to  subdue  by  criticism 
This  heart  of  verse. 

Or  close  this  mouth. 

*'WeIl.  it  looks  like  it.  since  Mr.  C  >ogler  has  issued  five  volumes  of  hi-; 
verse.  There  will  be  little  use  to  try  to  shut  him  up.  Mr.  Coogler  has 
evidently  been  heels  over  head  in  love  with  the  South  Carolina  maidens, 
for  he  addresses  numerous  allusions  to  them.  For  instance,  in  a  p  >em 
to 'Lilian,'  he  says: 

"Yet  the  love  which  you  have  taught  me 

Ne'er  shall  fade  within  my  breast. 
But  shall  beam  along  my  journey 

Like  a  sunbeam  from  the  west. 
*  *  *  it  * 

"Mr.  Coogler  cannot  like  Keats,  be  tortued  or  slain  by  adverse  com 
ment." 

From  a  lengthy  editorial  in  "THE  ATLANTA  (Ga.)  CON 
STITUTION": 

"Our  readers  have  no  doubt  heard  of  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  tie  able 
young  poet,  whose  pleasing  fancies  have  won  for  him  a  fame  that  i£ 
unique  in  this  age  of  cold  commercial  transactions.  There  must  be 
something  in  the  writings  of  a  man  who  can  attract  attention  and  win 
applause  when  corn  is  thirty  cents  a  bushel  and  potato  bugs  have  be 
come  a  burden. 

***** 

"It  will  be  the  chief  distinction  of  those  who  gird  at  J.  Gordon  Coog 
ler  that  they  are  unable  to  see  what  posterity  will  see  so  plainly.  Mean 
while,  the  work  of  (Jooglerising  the  country  is  rapidly  growing  and 
spreading.  Enthusiastic  Google  rites  are  springing  up  everywhere,  and 
Cooglerisms  are  heard  on  every  side.  These  things  show  the  drift  of 
popular  sentiment  and  taste." 

Again  "THE  CONSTITUTION"  says,  in  a  column  of  review 
of  my  works  : 

"By  his  works  ye  shall  know  an  author,  and  it  would  require  a  calm 
perusal  of  the  five  volumes  issued  by  J.  Gordon  Coogler  in  order  to  get 


25 

in  touch  with  the  delicate  fibers  of  his  thoughts  and  feel  the  real  force  of 
his  undoubted  genius.  It  was  dirlyle  who  said  of  Burns  :  'He  had  a  soul 
like  an  Aeolian  harp  changing  the  vulgar  wind  into  melody.'  Would 
that  Garlyle  could  have  known  J.  Gordon  Coogler. 

"In  'Maud,  the  Mill,  and  the  Lily"  a  few  of  the  most  passionate 
thoughts  of  Mr.  Coogler  find  utterance.  It  has  about  it  the  soleful  sym 
phony  of  Tennyson's  "Maud'  as  shown  by  the  following  verse  : 

"Maud  —  for  her  gentle  name  was  Maud  — 
Wore  many  smiles,  and  they  were  sad. 

A  thousand  virtues  she  retained, 
Many  of  which  I  never  had. 

"After  a  fall  description  of  Maud  he  gives  the  following  graphic  pic 
ture  : 

"Maud  did  not  heed  the  roaring  sound 

Of  distant  thunder  in  the  west. 
Nor  did  she  fear  the  lightning's  flash 
Glistening  on  her  snowy  breast. 

'•In  individualizing  Mr.  Coogler  gives  highest  respect  to  woman,  but 
for  woman  in  the  abstract  he  sometimes  Shows  peculiar  antipathy. 
*  *  *  * 

"On  this  Same  subject  of  woman  Mr.  C  >ogler  has  a  poem  called  'She 
Fell  Like  a  Flake  of  Snow.'  In  this  stanza  the  pathos  is  most  keen  : 

"She  was  beautiful  once  ;  but  she  fell. 

And  some  said:  'Let  her  go, 
For  she  can  never  shine  again 

Like  a  beautiful  flake  of  snow." 

"These  few  selections  give  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  genius  of  the  South 
Carolina  laureate." 


COLUMBIA  (S.  C.)  STATE"  in  a  lengthy  editorial  re 
view  says  : 

'•Coogler's  fifth  volume  of  'Purely  Original  Verse'  is  already  recog- 
n  ixed  by  entomological  criticism  throughout  this  broad  land  as  a  new 
and  distinct  species  of  surpassing  interest. 

"There  is  but  one  Coogler,  the  founder  of  the  Cooglerian  school  pf  poesy, 
and  while  he  sings  the  great  American  people  will  listen  to  no  other  of 
his  kind.  Later,  perhaps,  when  Coogler  shall  have  hung  up  his  lyre,  and 
reclined  upon  his  couch  of  bays,  his  pupils  will  begin  to  pipe  —  but  not 
now,  not  yet.  He  has  founded  his  school,  established  his  cult." 


'•THE  CHICAGO  (111.)  POST"  in  a  column  of  editorial  re 
view,  says  : 

"J.  Gordon  Coogler  of  South  Carolina,  the  sweet  singer  of  the  Saluda, 
who  reasonably  aspires  to  the  mantle  worn   by  Paul  Hayne.  Linier  and 
Father  Ryan, has  favored  us  with  a  c:>py  of  his  'purelj-  original  verse.' 
***** 

•  •  •  "We  have  pursued  his  flights  of  fancy  with  more  than  ordinary 
interest,  and  with  an  effort  to  lie  calmly  logical,  though  just  and  appre 
ciative.  We  opened  the  hook  at  'Woman's  Folly,'  and  as  we  are  always 
concerned  over  the  follies  of  woma'i  we  attach  great  importance  to  Mr. 

Coogler's  conclusions. 

*  *  *  *  * 

'•Our  next  experience  with  Mr.  C.)ogler's  verse  was  the  passionate 
adieu,  'Farewell  Lilian' : 

"Farewell.  Lilian,  you  are  g  >ing 

Far  away  to  leave  m"  now; 
You  Shall  bo  the  sunlight.  Lilian, 

That  shall  linger  on  my  brow. 
*  *  *  *  * 

"But  Mr.  Coogler  is  not  solely  devoted  to  his  'Lilian.'  for  we  find  him 
invoking  'Maud.'  'Daisy'  and  'Laura,'  not  to  sp^ak  of  'a  golden-haired 
girl.'  a  'brown-eyed  lady  who  occup'es  a  lovely  cottage.'  a  'sweet  college 
girl/  otherwise  known  as  a  '.nilk- white  dove,'  and  an  inamorata  who  MS 
lying  ill  at  her  home.'  And  Mr.  Coogler  is  not  bound  down  by  any  han  - 
pering  laws  of  caste,  for  he  has  an  eye  and  a  heart  for  the  -p  >or  working 
girls,'  as  this  lyric  betrays: 

"Sweet  working  j.irl.  I  love  to  view  the  happy  smiles 

Tpon  thy  fair  and  beaming  face; 
Thy  perfect  form,  tho'  devoid  of  rich  appnvl, 

Is  lovelier  far  because  of  its  simple  grace. 

"There's  gall  intry  for  you  !  Petrarch  never  wrote  a  prettier  thing  to 
his  L-iura.  nor  Swift  to  his  St<  lla,  nor  Dante  to  his  Beatrice,  nor  Artie  to 
his  Min.  But  we  must  pvss  swif.ly  and  regretfully  away  from  these  ten 
der  outpourings  to  the  contemplation  of  Mr.C  >og!er's  philosophy  as  p.»r- 
t  rayed  in  'Marriage  and  Death' : 

"Marri;>ge  and  death — these  great  events  in  life, 

Alas!  with  each  other  are  blended; 
A  festive  scene  and  a  funeral  march. 

And  mai.'s  biief  journey  is  ended. 


27 

'•A  marriage  puff  and  a  funeral  notice 

Is  the  end  of  his  transient  tale, 
And  lie  vanishes  from  human  sight 

Beyond  life's  dark  and  gloomy  veil. 

'•We  had  not  intended  at  this  time  to  speak  so  exhaustively  of  Mr. 
C,>ogler's  achievements,  but  we  have  been  carried  away  by  sincere  ap 
probation  of  his  poetic  impulse.  It  remains  for  us  to  say  only  that  Mr. 
C;>ogler's  book  is  adorned  with  a  very  attractive  picture  of  the  poet  him 
self,  sitting  at  his  table,  pen  in  hand,  thinking  some  thoughts  of  Maud 
and  Daisy  and  Lilian,  or,  perchance  throwing  a  fiery  challenge  at  his 
envious  contemporaries." 


Editor  Hale  of  "THE  NASHVILLE  (Tenn.)  AMERICAN" 
concludes  a  column  of  review  of  my  works  as  follows: 
(Speaking  of  the  poem  entitled  "The  Path  to  Fame,"  he  says,) 

"The  courage  displayed  is  sublime.  Here  is  at  least  one  more  poet 
who  would  be  willing,  I  opine,  to  die  for  Greece.  But  the  public  is  so 
(lueer  in  its  tastes! 

"Seriously,  if  Mr.  Coogler  will  study,  acquaint  himself  with  his  tech 
nique,  and  then  write  something,  he  may.  on  the  notice  he  is  now  receiv- 
ing.  be  enabled  to  win  a  kinder  public's  ear  than  most  young  versifiers 
have  won  it.  I  at  least  wish  him  the  fulfillment  of  his  aspirations,  as 
expressed  in'  his  lines  to  Hope  : 

"For  me  them  hast  upon  thy  gilded  beam, 
The  sunlight  of  a  happier  dream 
Ere  my  days  shall  cease."' 


"THE  RUTLAND  (Vt. )  HERALD"  in  over  a  column  of 
strong1  editorial,  entitled,  "Two  Kinds  of  Diplomacy,"  in 
which  it  deals  with  what  the  English  papers  say  about  the 
"'annoying  ignorance  of  diplomatic  methods'  'shown  by 
Secretary  of  State  Sherman  in  the  Behring  sea  correspond 
ence  with  Lord  Salisbury,"  referring  to  myself,  says  : 

"We  are  inclined  to  say  with  that  able  but  not  as  yet  very  famous 
manufacturer  of  verse,  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  that 

"The  man  who  thinks  God  is  too  kind 

To  punish  actions  vile, 
Is  bad  at  heart,  of  unsound  mind. 

Or  very  juvenile/' 


28 

From  a  column  of  editorial  in  the  "ALBANY  (N.  Y.) 
ARGOSY": 

"Mr.  J.  Gordon  Coogler's  fifth  volume  of  'Purely  Original  Verse'  is  a 
dainty  volume  of  82  pages,  and  contains  more  variety  to  the  square  inch 
tha'i  any  other  hook  of  poems  with  which  we  have  acquaintance.  Verses 
of  Mr.  Coogler  are  certainly  versatile. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"Mr.  Coogler  is  conscious  of  his  failings,  and  in  his  poem  of  'Maud,  the 
Mill  and  the  Lily,'  he  pays  this  tribute  to  Maud  at  his  own  expense: 

Maud — for  her  gentle  name  was  Maud — 
Wore  many  smiles,  and  they  were  sad; 
A  thousind  virtues  she  retained, 
Many  of  which  I  never  had. 
***** 

"We  might  continue  indefinitely,  but  we  close  with  the  stan/a  entitled 
'Impossible.1  .... 


"THE  KNOXVILLE  (Tenn.)  TRIBUNE"  in  nearly  a  column 
of  editorial  says  : 

"Coogler  is  no  weakling;  not  a  poet  to  be  bluffed  Vy  criticism,  or 
driven  into  silence  by  c  )'i tumuli  >us  remirk^.  H^  is  as  defiant  a-«  he  is 
original.  He  is  game;  we  admire  his  spirit,  as  we  admire  his  verse." 


"TiiE  CHARLESTON  (8.  C.)  NEWS  AND  COURIEK"  in  a  re 
view  of  my  works,  says  : 

"There  are  many  gems  of  thought  and  of  melody  scattered  thoughout 
the  pages  of  Mr.  Coogler's  volume,  but  we  shrink  from  the  task  of  select 
ing  the  few  that  our  limit  would  permit,  while  leaving  unmentioned  so 
many  others  equally  worthy  of  fame.  We  cannot,  however,  resist  the 
temptation  of  giving  our  readers  the  benefit  of  one  stanxa,  which  seems 
to  us  to  combine  patriotism,  poetry  and  satire  in  a  quite  remarka 
ble  degree.  It  is  the  first  verse  of  the  author's  innovation  to  his  native 
State : 

"Alas!  Carolina!  Carolina!  Fair  land  of  my  birth. 
.  Thy  fame  will  be  wafted  from  the  mountain  to  the  sen. 
As  being  the  greatest  educational  centre  on  earth. 
At  the  cost  of  men's  blood  thro'  thy  'one  X'  whiskey/' 


20 

From  a  page  of  review  in  "THE  COLUMBIA  (S.  C.)  REGIS 
TER": 

•'All  truly  great  minds  have  a  way  of  striking  the  keynote  of  a  sub 
ject  in  a  single  utterance,  and  without  circumlocution  of  any  kind;  and 
the  present  reviewer  was  not,  therefore,  in  the  least  surprised  to  find 
the  very  first  poem  in  Mr.  Coogler's  fifth  volume  indicative  of  the  pure 
and  hallowed  ambition  that  incites  him  to  woo  the  muse.  Its  title  is, 
'The  Path  to  Fame,'  and  the  initial  verse  lets  every  intelligent  reader 
into  Mr.  Coogler's  secret: 

"The  path  is  old  and  well-beaten  I  know 

That  leads  away  o'er  the  hills  to  fame; 
I've  started  therein  and  I  cannot  turn  hack. 

I've  naught  to  regret,  and  no  one  to  blame." 


"THE  TRENTON  (N.  J.)  TIMES"  concluding  an  editorial 
on  my  works,  says  : 

"It  is  difficult  to  assign  J.  Gordon  Coogler  to  a  place  among  the  greater 
poets.  His  style  seems  to  be  a  mixture  of  the  Byronic  and  Tennysonian, 
though  we  do  not  wish  to  even  intimate  that  Coogler  is  not  original  in 
his  treatment  of  subjects." 


Editor  Chas.  Petty  of  "THE  CAROLINA  SPARTAN"  con 
cludes  an  editorial,  as  follows: 

"J.  Gordon  Coogler,  with  the  greatest  facility,  born  of  inspiration,  fills 
up  the  little  space  at  the  bottom  of  the  pages  of  his  volumes  with  dainty 
couplets  like  this : 

"Alas!  for  the  South,  her  books  have  grown  fewer — 
She  never  was  much  given  to  literature. 

"Bravely  does  he  stand  up  and  plead  that  woman's  fair  fame  shall 
never  lie  stained  by  word  or  insinuation.  He  says: 

"All  heaven  has  no  water  soft  enough, 

Nor  earth  no  cleansing  soap. 
That  can  wash  the  crimson  from  the  heart 

That  destroys  a  woman's  hope. 

"Now  if  that  is  not  poetry,  we  would  like  for  some  one  to  tell  us  what 
it  is." 


30 

A  literary  critic  in  the  "ALKAHEST,"  Atlanta, Ga.,  writes  : 

"I  will  confess  I  had  been  reading  Coogler  for  several  months  in  secret 
before  I  discovered  that  he  was  to  be  appreciated,  to  be  applauded,  to  l.e 
perpetuated.  The  first  thought  of  all  this  burned  in  upon  me  while  I 
was  reading  for  the  eleventh  time  the  poem  entitled:  'I  Dislike  a  Vain 
and  Haughty  Man,1  It  was  after  reading  the  fourth  verse  which  is  as 
follows,  that  I  became  purely  enthused: 

'•If  I  should  rise  to  lofty  heights. 

And  humble  heart  shall  be  thereon, 
And  though  you  may  be  far  below. 

Remember,  YOU  I  shall  not  scorn." 


"THE  SPARTANBUKG  (S.  C.)  HEKAI.D"  clo?e-»  a  lengthy 
editorial  as  follows: 

"A  prophet  is  not  without  honor  save  in  his  own  country,  and  it  is 
much  the  same  with  p-iets.  While  South  Carolina  and  Boston  are  pour 
ing  over  the  satin-lined  volumes  of  Browning,  the  great  heart  of  the 
great  West  has  responded  to  the  modest  little  'fifth  volume  of  purely 
original  verses.'  and  we  begin  to  see  grey  streaks  of  ihe  dawn  of  rt 
Google rian  age." 


Quite  a  number  of  other  journals  and  magazines  have 
noticed  my  works,  some  of  them  very  extensively;  but 
space  will  not  permit  further  extracts.  Among  them  are: 

"The  Boston  Journal,"  the  "Colorado  Springs  Gazette," 
the  "Denver  Colorado  Times,"  the  "Evening  Telegram," 
Portland,  Oregon,  the  "Detroit  Free  Press,"  the  "Omaha 
Kee,"  the  Jacksonville  (Fla.)  Citizen,"  the  "Norfolk  (Va.) 
Landmark,"  the  "Atlanta  Journal,"  the  "Savannah  Morn 
ing  News,"  the  "Greenville  (S.  C.)  News,"  and  the  "Ohio 
Slate  Journal." 

Among  the  magazines  :  "Peterson's  Magazine,"  N.  Y.r 
"The  Outlook,"  N.  Y.,  "Book  News,"  Philadelphia." 


31 
LETTERS  FROM  LITERARY  PERSONS. 


"1823  ALDINE  AVENUE,  CHICAGO,  ILL.,  MARCH  25th,  1897. 
Mr.  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  Columbia,  S.  C. : 

DEAR  SIR:  I  have  been  asked  to  write  to  you  to  express  the  deep  in 
terest  taken  in  your  work  by  one  of  Chicago's  most  celebrated  literary 
clubs.  We  spent  one  whole  evening  of  extreme  enjoyment  in  reading 
and  commenting  upon  your  fifth  volmne  of  'Purely  Original  Verse'  and 
are  now  most  anxious  to  know  something  more  of  one  who  has  so  aptly 
been  called  the  American  laureate.  Other  evenings  of  this  season  we 
have  given  over  to  the  discussion  of  Heinrich  Heine,  Frederick  Amiel 
and  other  writers  of  poetry  and  philosophy,  but  none  has  been  so  in 
tensely  enjoyable  as  that  spent  in  the  reading  of  your  filth  volume  of 
verse.  We  hope  to  spend  next  Thursday  evening,  April  1st,' in  another 
'Coogler' evening  and  would  like  to  have  you  send  some  of  the  earlier 
of  your  published  works,  as  well  as  an  extra  two  or  three  copies  of 
volume  five.  Any  information  you  care  to  add  about  how  you  came  to 
discover  your  gift  and  what  laurels,  other  than  those  you  refer  to  in  your 
introduction,  have  come  to  you  from  the  public,  we  should  be  very,  very 
grateful  for.  We  regard  you,  if  I  may  say  so,  as  an  extraordinary  inter 
esting  man  and  would  eagerly  welcome  any  smallest  detail  of  autobio 
graphical  information  which  might  help  us  to  a  solution  of  the  problem 
of  your  remarkable  mentality. 

Please  forward  the  volumes,  with  bill  for  same,  and  any  other  contri 
bution  you  may  care  to  make  toward  our  study  of  your  muse,  to  Miss 
Elizabeth  Abbott,  182:5  Aldine  Avenue,  Chicago,  111. 

Yours  very  sincerely,  with  profound  gratitude, 

ELIZABETH  ABBOTT." 


The  following  letter  was  received  from  Mr.  Henry  W. 
Grady,  Atlanta,  Ga.,  president  of  the  first  literary  club  or 
ganized  in  my  name  in  the  South,  on  receiving  a  life-size 
portrait  of  myself  and  a  copy  of  my  complete  works  : 

"ATLANTA,  GA.,   JUNE  14th,  18.47. 
Mr.  J.  Gordon  Coogler,  Columbia,  S.  C.: 

MY  DEAR  SIR:    The  morning's  express  brought   to  the  Coogler  club 
the  elegant  present  you   have  so  generously  made  the  organization.    To 


say  that  the  members  of  the  club  are  delighted  with  the  picture  and 
grateful  for  your  interest  in  the  organization  but  mildly  expresses  their 
feelings.  Eich  and  every  member  wanted  to  take  the  picture  from  the 
packing  case  with  his  own  hands,  but  I.  as  president  of  the  club,  ap 
pointed  myself  a  committee  of  one  to  perform  that  pleasant  duty.  The 
elegant  little  volume  containing  these  p  >etie  gems  that  we  all  love  so 
dearly  will  be  kept  in  the  club  room  at  all  times  where  the  members 
may  learn  something  each  day  of  their  favorite  poet.  I  trust  that  you 
will  p'irdoii  a  few  words  about  myself,  but  I  want  you  to  know  what  a 
pleasure  your  poems  have  been  to  me  personally.  I  read  them  con 
stantly  and  at  every  perusal  of  your  sweet  verse  I  find  something  new 
to  admire  and  sentiments  that  appeal  to  me.  May  your  muse  long  con 
tinue  to  guide  your  fearless  pen  and  give  to  the  world,  in  spite  of  your 
envious  critics,  more  of  those  charming  verses  that  are  making  you 
Immortal.  But  in  my  enthusiasm  I  have  digressed  from  my  intention 
of  thanking  you  for  the  picture  and  the  poems.  I  desire  not  only  to 
thank  you  in  behalf  of  the  club,  but  to  personally  let  you  know  how  I, 
as  president  of  the  Coogler  club,  appreciate  your  interest  in  our  little 
band.  If  the  club  can  do  anything,  however  small,  in  the  way  of  mak» 
ing  the  world  appreciate  real  genius,  I  can  confidently  say  that  every 
member  will  feel  that  he  has  done  something  to  help  the  condition  of 
his  fellow  man.  The  world  will  soon  learn  that  the  South  has  at  least 
cme  literary  genius  who,  though  lie  may  pass  out  of  his  mortal  form, 
will  (  v  >r  live  in  the  memory  of  his  people  as  one  worthy  to  represent  to 
the  world  of  letters  a  people  proud  to  point  to  him  as  their  one  great 
poet.  We  have  every  day  requests  from  people  to  become  members  of 
the  club,  but  we  are  careful  about  admitting  new  brothers,  as  we  have 
now  an  organization  to  1  e  proud  of  and  desire  to  have  in  it  only  the 
most  appreciative  literary  spirits.  As  you  know,  nearly  all  of  the  mem 
bers  of  the  club  are  newspaper  men  who  are  working,  as  you  are,  to  be 
come  famous  with  the  pen,  and  who  are  ever  ready  to  do  what  they  call 
to  aid  their  more  fortunate  brothers  on  up  the  road  of  fame. 

With  the  best  wishes  of  the  club  and  its  humble  president,  I  have  the 
honor  to  be  youv  admirer  and  friend, 

HENRY  W.  GRADY." 


33 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  received  by  the 
author  from  a  highly  intelligent  literary  lady  of  Boston, 
Mass.  Owing  to  the  letter  being  of  a  private  nature,  her 
name  is  omitted  : 

"Through  your  kindness  I  can  now  enjoy  the  whole  of  the  beautiful 
lyric  beginning, 

"As  the  summer  sunbeams 
Peep  o'er  the  distant  hills 

On  some  sweet  and  lonely  brook, 
So  my  weary,  longing  eyes, 
Warm  with  the  dew  of  love, 
To  thee  alone  do  look. 

"But  Why  so  short  ?  You  always  stop  when  one  wants  you  to  go  on  the 
most.  'I  Wish  I  Was  There'  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  sad.  Even  the  dear 
little  'Violet  and  Jonquil'  has  the  tone-color  of  sadness." 


(FIFTH    VOLUME.) 


This  volume,  (the  fifth  in  order  of  a  series  of  sma] 
ing  seventy  pages,  I  respectfully  dedicate  to 

THE  J.  GORDON  COOGLER  CLUB,  STANZA  1.  OF  ATLANTA,  GA., 
as  a  token  of  gratitude  for  their  appreciation  of  my  works. 

J.  GORDON  COOGLER. 
COLUMBIA,  S.  C. 


(The  dedication  of  each  of  the  other  small  volumes  in  this  rolume 
complete  will  he  as  follows:  Fourth  volume;  to  the  Sons  and  Daughters 
of  Carolina — third  volume;  to  my  patrons  throughout  the  North,  East 
and  West — second  volume;  to  Dr.  W.  J.  Murray — first  volume;  to  W.  H. 
Gibhes,  Jr.,  and  J.  Wilson  Gihhes.) 


THE  PATH  TO  FAME. 

The  path  is  old  and  well-beaten  I  know 
That  leads  away  o'er  the  hills  to  fame; 

I've  started  therein  and  I  cannot  turn  back, 
I've  naught  to  regret,  and  no  one  to  blame. 

The  clouds  may  be  dark  that  linger  around 
These  feet  as  they  move  in  that  lone  sphere, 

And  the  thorns  be  many  to  pierce  my  heart, 
Yet  'mid  all  these  I've  nothing  to  fear. 

Let  critics  assail  my  innocent  muse, 

And  belittle  the  name  which  they  ne'er  can  mar, 
Yet  both  shall  shine  from  the  hills  of  fame 

Like  the  radiant  light  of  some  sweet  star. 

Tho'  the  course  I  have  taken  be  lonely  and  dark, 
Pitied,  condemn'd  by  one  and  by  all; 

Yet  the  star  of  ambition  is  glowing  for  me, 
Tho'  I  stumble,  alas !  I  ne'er  shall  fall. 

IMPOSSIBLE. 

You  may  as  well  try  to  change  the  course 
Of  yonder  sun 

To  north  and  south, 
As  to  try  to  subdue  by  criticism 
This  heart  of  verse, 

Or  close  this  mouth. 


36  POEMS. 

WOMAN'S  FOLLY. 

Alas!  poor  woman,  with  eyes  of  sparkling  fire. 
Thy  heart  is  often  won  by  mankind's  gay  attire  ; 
So  weak  thou  art,  so  very  weak  at  best, 
Thou  canst  not  look  beyond  a  satin-lined  vest. 

I've  seen  thee  ofttimes  cast  a  winning  glance 
And  be  carried  away — as  it  were  within  a  trance — 
By  the  gay  apparel  of  some  dishonest  youth, 
Whose  bosom  heaved  with  not  a  single  truth. 

Alas!  for  thee — I  would  that  thou  couldst  learn 

That  love  does  not  in  such  quicksilver  burn; 

That  he  who  lurks  beside  thy  virtuous  path, 

When  thy  good  name  is  gone,  will  gaze  on  thee  and  laugh. 

For  what  care  he,  whom  thy  fair  hand  would  take, 
If  in  after  years  thy  gentle  heart  should  break  ; 
No  tears  of  remorse  would  damp  his  wayward  eyes — 
Such  tears  can  only  come  ere  the  conscience  dies. 


AH,  DAISY. 

Ah,  Daisy,  so  lovely  in  thy  gentleness, 
Who  would  not  press  thy  snowy  hand 

Until  thy  cheeks  grew  red  ; 
Who  would  not  live  in  the  balmy  breeze 
That  gently  wafts  the  silken  curls 
On  thy  angelic  head. 


Alas!  for  the  South,  her  books  have  grown  fewer 
She  never  was  much  given  to  literature. 


POEMS.  37 

SOME  DAY. 

Some  day,  when  the  light  of  your  sweet  azure  eyes 
Shall  grow  dim  as  dying  sunheams  on  the  sea, 

Then  as  you  raise  those  weary  eyes  and  gaze 
Afar  off — may  you  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Some  day,  when  memory  brings  the  happy  thought 
Of  other  years  when  our  hearts  beat  firm  and  slow, 

Then  you  may  bear  for  me  that  perfect  love 
I  have  borne  for  you,  since  I  met  you  long  ago. 

Some  day,  when  life's  dark  shadows  shall  have  borne 
The  golden  sunbeams  from  'round  your  gentle  feet, 

Then  you  will  think  of  the  love  which  you  have  spuru'd 
On  my  heart's  pure  shrine,  so  gentle  and  so  sweet. 

May  you,  when  the  dint  of  sorrow  marks  your  brow, 
And  hope  grows  dim  within  your  troubl'd  heart, 

Think  of  me,  alone  in  this  changing  world, 

Mourning  o'er  love's  ties,  that  now  He  far  apart. 

Think,  then,  of  the  happy  hours  we've  spent  together 

On  the  summit  of  yonder  gentle  hill, 
Where  in  tears  you  told  me  you'd  be  true  to  me, 

Those  words  burn  deep  within  my  mem'ry  still. 

Some  day — if  not  within  this  vale  of  tears 

Where  ties  are  broken,  and  love  is  tempest  driven — 

You'll  love  me  as  fondly  as  I  have  e'er  loved  you, 
In  the  unchanging  light  of  an  eternal  heaven. 


*4Fare\vell" — that  word  we  all  must  speak, 
How  it  wearies  the  heart  and  fades  the  cheek. 


38  POEMS. 


SING  ON,  GENTLE  MUSE. 

Sing-  on,  gentle  muse,  you  shall  be  heard  again! 
Your  soft  notes  shall  float  upon  the  breeze 

To  comfort  the  outcast  and  the  poor: 
From  the  lone  meadows  to  the  hill-tops  drear 
Your  gentle  notes  shall  charm  the  savage  ear 

That  never  cared  for  song  before. 

Like  a  light-winged  bird  you  shall  ascend 
Far  above  the  many  jealous  tongues 

That  seek  to  wound  your  lonely  heart; 
You  shall  be  heard,  and  while  you  sing  of  love, 
And  soar  afar  like  some  lone  turtle  dove, 

You  must  receive  the  critics'  dart. 

They  are  many,  and  very  rash  indeed, 
And  often  fling  their  poison'd  arrows  deep 

Down  in  the  heart's  tender's!  core; 
But  the  wound  they  inflict  will  not  be  as  hard  to  bear 
As  that  inflicted  by  the  friends  you  once  held  dear 

'Round  your  own  fond  native  door. 


MYSTERIOUS  TEAK! 

From  what  warm  region  comest  thou, 
Oh,  thou  strange  and  erring  drop, 

So  crystal  clear  ? 

E'en  on  the  smooth  white  cheek  of  youth 
Thou  dost  leave  thy  lasting  stain — 

Mysterious  TEAR  ! 


POEMS. 

DESTROY  IT  NOT. 

Go  shatter  the  walls  of  some  beautiful  city 
That  is  noted  for  grandeur  and  fame, 

Rather  than  cast  a  suggestive  remark 
To  destroy  a  woman's  fair  name. 

The  walls  of  a  city  can  be  erected  again, 
Their  beauty  be  grander  than  ever; 

But  a  woman's  good  name  once  destroyed 
Can  ne'er  be  reclairn'd,  no  never. 

All  Heaven  has  no  water  soft  enough, 

Nor  earth  no  cleansing  soap, 
That  can  wash  the  crimson  from  the  heart 

'['hat  destroys  a  woman's  hope. 


ALAS!   CAROLINA! 

Alas!  Carolina!  Carolina!  Fair  land  of  my  birth, 
Thy  fame  will  be  wafted  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea 

As  being  the  greatest  educational  centre  on  earth, 
At  the  cost  of  men's  blood  thro'  thy  "one  N"  whiskey. 

Two  very  large  elephants'-  thou  hast  lately  installed, 
Where  thy  sons  and  thy  daughters  are  invited  to  come, 

And  learn  to  be  physically  and  mentally  strong, 
By  the  solemn  proceeds  of  thy  "'innocent''  rum. 

•Winthrop and  Clemson  colleges. 


40  POEMS. 

THEY  LAID  HER  DOWN  IN  A  LONELY  GRAVE. 

They  laid  her  down  while  the  autumn  leaves  were  falling, 
In  a  lonely  grave  beside  the  deep  blue  sea; 

Her  angel  spirit  is  now  beyond  recalling, 
And  her  fair  form  can  ne'er  revisit  you  and  me. 

They  laid  her  low  while  the  autumn  winds  were  sighing 
Thro'  the  half-clad  trees  on  yonder  lonely  hill; 

The  breeze  that  passed  o'er  the  grave  where  she  was  lying 
Was  as  soft  as  the  wind  that  ripples  the  gentle  rill. 

She  sleeps  to-day  in  all  her  truth  and  loveliness, 
The  purest  and  gentlest  of  her  gentle  kind  ; 

We  loved  her,  and  loved  her  none  the  less 
For  the  little  faults  which  she  has  left  behind. 

Soon  summer's  morn  will  brighten  her  resting  place, 

And  scatter  its  dew  above  her  azure  eyes; 
The  little  birds  will  sing  'round  her  happy  face, 

And  the  flowers  bloom  sweetly  'neath  the  sunny  skies. 

The  violet  will  bloom  beside  the  lily  there, 
Bound,  as  by  love,  in  some  sweet  magic  spell, 

And  ev'ry  petal  a  brighter  hue  will  wear 
For  her  who  sleeps  below — a  crushed  immortelle. 

So  let  her  sleep,  in  all  her  gentleness, 

Like  some  sweet  form  in  love's  enchanting  dream ; 
She'll  bloom  again  in  all  her  perfectness, 

The  lily  of  holy  love  beside  a  crystal  stream. 


The  sweetest  beam  of  love  and  grace 
Is  that  which  glows  on  an  honest  face. 


POEMS.  41 

A  CRYSTALIZED  ROSE. 

In  my  garden  I  stroll'd  on  a  cold  winter  morn, 
As  the  beautiful  snow  lay  under  my  feet; 

The  hills  and  the  dales,  and  all  I  beheld, 

Was  laden  and  shining  with  glist'ning  sleet. 

All  'round  me  there  glitter'd,  above  and  below, 

Icicles  in  groups  and  icicles  in  rows; 
I  saw  at  my  feet  in  a  mantle  of  sleet 

The  half-blown  bud  of  a  beautiful  rone. 

I  gather'd  the  rose  in  its  glittering  robe, 

And  tenderly  bore  it  to  the  warmth  of  my  room, 

Where  I  gazed  on  its  leaves  till  the  ice  dripp'd  away, 
Then  naught  I  beheld  but  the  sweet-scented  bloom. 

On  my  mantle  I  placed  it  in  a  brown-color'd  vase 
Where  no  roses,  save  summer's,  had  cluster'd  before, 

It  petals  soon  open'd  and  my  chamber  was  sweet 
With  its  delicate  odor  for  a  fortnight  or  more. 

As  I  thought  of  this  lonely  and  innocent  bud, 
Too  modestly  blooming  for  man  to  behold, 

I  remember'd  the  form  of  a  beautiful  girl 
Cast  out  in  the  world  to  die  in  the  cold. 

As  I  gazed  on  its  leaves  so  tender  and  sweet, 
More  perfect  than  the  rose  in  the  morning  of  May, 

I  pictured  the  face  of  that  beautiful  being 
Away  from  the  sunlight  of  life's  sweet  day. 

I  thought  of  her  life  with  its  winter  and  frost, 
And  how  truly  unhappy  her  moments  had  been — 

I  wished  I  had  borne  her,  like  the  sweet  rose, 
To  my  chamber  of  love— and  admitted  her  in. 


42  POEMS. 

She  budded  and  bloomed  in  the  garden  of  sorrow, 
Passed  down  to  her  grave  in  the  moiild'ring  clay; 

Her  beautiful  spirit's  now  blooming  in  heaven — 
The  snow  and  the  ice  have  all  melted  away. 


IN  REMEMBRANCE. 

(Written  on  the  flyleaf  of  a  volume  of  poems  which  the  author  pre 
sented  to  a  young  lady  friend  in  Nashville,  Tenn.  Over  the  verses  a  red 
rose  was  pressed.) 

'Tis  only  a  rose  which  I  tenderly  plucked, 
And  lovingly  bore  from  the  garden's  dew; 

It  may  not  be  fair,  but  it  tells  of  the  care 
The  poet  has  displayed  in  remembrance  of  you. 

Here  let  it  remain  tho'  wither'd  and  crushed, 
It  tells  of  a  friendship  unfading  and  true  ; 

Tho'  on  this  fair  page  it  leaves  but  a  stain, 

That  stain  shall  be  sweet,  if  in  remembrance  of  you. 


WHEN  SHE  IS  GONE. 

No  truer  deed  in  token  of  love  will  I  employ, 
Than  to  scatter  o'er  her  lonely  resting  place 

Fresh  immortelles 
In  fond  mem'ry  of  the  life  and  love 
Of  that  dear  old  mother  who  always  loved  her  boy. 

Tho'  Time's  cold  hand  may  steal  from  me  life's  dearest  joy, 
And  I  be  left  alone  in  a  wide,  wide  world, 

Sadly  forsaken  — 

Yet  naught  can  take  from  me  the  life,  the  love, 
Of  that  dear  old  mother  who  always  loved  her  boy. 


POEMS.  43 

FAREWELL,  SWEET  HOME! 

Farewell,  sweet  home  of  my  childhood  hours! 

Where  joy  and  sorrow  were  blended  ; 
Within  thy  halls  I  have  loved  and  lost, 

But  now  those  scenes  are  ended. 

In  other  days  when  hope  was  dawning  new 
In  the  hearts  that  gathered  'round  thy  hearth, 

A  loving  band  had  just  been  gather'd  there, 
When  one  by  one  they  faded  to  earth. 

Farewell,  sweet  home  of  my  childhood  hours! 

Strange  hours  of  joy  and  pain; 
The  smiles,  the  tears,  thus  mingled  there, 

Can  ne'er  the  like  be  felt  again. 


MORK  CARE  FOR  THE  NECK  THAN  FOR  THE 
INTELLECT. 

Fair  lady,  on  that  snowy  neck  and  half-clad  bosom 
Which  you  so  publicly  reveal  to  man, 

There's  not  a  single  outward  stain  or  speck; 
Would  that  you  had  given  but  half  the  care 
To  the  training  of  your  intellect  and  heart 

As  you  have  given  to  that  spotless  neck. 

For  Time,  alas  !  must  touch  with  cold,  unerring  hand, 
That  fair  bosom's  soft,  untarnish'd  hue, 

Staining  that  lily-leaf  of  your  sweet  sex ; 
Then  in  ignorance  you  will  journey  here  below, 
Hiding  that  once  fair  bosom  'neath  a  veil, 

With  a  standing  collar  'round  your  wrinkled  neck. 


44  POEMS. 

"UNSTEADY  I  STAND." 

(On  hearing  a  lady,  speaking  of  her  past  life  and  hopes,  say:  -'lam 
now  on  the  verge  of  womanhood;  eighteen  summers' old ;  hut  oh,  how 
unsteady  I  stand!") 

"Unsteady  I  stand"  on  the  very  verge 

Of  womanhood,  and  cast  aside  ; 
I  cannot  retrace  life's  journey  now, 

On  its  gloomy  waters  I  would  not  glide. 

No  hark  doth  drift  on  that  lone  stream 
Whose  angry  waters  helow  me  roll — 

My  youthful  dream  of  life  is  o'er, 
I  stand  alone  with  troubled  soul. 

Could  I  but  mount  the  wind  that  wings 

Its  rapid  flight  across  my  way, 
Fain  would  I  go — as  in  a  dream — 

And  sail  thro'  lands  of  endless  day. 

Could  I  but  float  in  that  lone  sound, 
That  echo  from  a  world  of  woe — 

I'd  close  these  eyes  in  endless  sleep- 
Careless  of  where  my  soul  would  go. 

Could  I  but  climb  to  yonder  skies 

On  this  golden  sunbeam  at  my  feet, 
There  I  would  find  my  home,  my  heaven, 

Youth's  dream  fulfilTd  and  friendship  sweet. 

Alas!  strange  man!  so  prone  to  win  some  maiden's  heart. 
And  cause  it  to  swell  with  grief  and  pain  ;  [hi id 

Like  some  school  boy  seeking  to  cage  and  wound  the  swett 
Whose  life  he  can  never  make  cheerful  again. 


POEMS. 

OTHER  DAYS. 

Who  does  not  love  when  youth  is  past 
To  wander  back  to  scenes  he  loved 

In  days  gone  by, 
To  sit  in  some  familiar  spot 
Where  the  evening  sunbeams  gather,  from 

A  cloudless  sky. 

Who  does  not  love  to  hear  the  notes, 
The  wild  notes  of  the  soaring  lark, 

High  o'er  the  trees; 
To  see  it  soar  around  his  head, 
Then  softly  'light  in  the  meadow  grass, 

In  June's  sweet  breeze. 

Who  does  not  love  to  linger  'round 
The  sunny  spot  where  he  once  roved 

A  careless  boy ; 

To  pluck  sweet  violets  from  the  bed 
On  which  he  plucked  them  long  ago, 

With  heart  of  joy. 


FAREWELL,  SWEET  SUMMER! 

Farewell,  sweet  Summer!  my  own  fair  guest, 

You  have  given  this  heart  no  pain  ; 
May  brighter  joys  attend  your  peaceful  visit 

When  you  come  to  my  bosom  again. 

You  have  kissed  my  cheeks  with  your  rose-tint  lips 

As  I  sat  at  sweet  eve  in  the  lane; 
I  shall  sigh  for  the  touch  of  those  passionate  lips 

Till  you  come  to  my  bosom  again. 


POEMS, 

FAREWELL,  LILIAN! 

Farewell  Lilian  I  you  are  going 

Far  away  to  leave  me  now; 
You  shall  be  the  sunlight,  Lilian, 

That  shall  linger  on  my  brow. 

Fate  hath  whisper'd,  you  must  leave  me, 

And  you  cannot  well  delay; 
We  must  part,  perhaps  forever. 

On  this  balmy  autumn  day, 

Would  that  I  had  never  met  yon. 
Never  held  your  gentle  hand, 

Then  my  heart  had  ne'er  been  broken, 
To  sorrow  in  its  native  land. 

Would  that  I  had  never  loved  you, 
Never  press'd  your  lips  to  mine: 

Then  I  would  to-day  be  happier, 
Bowing  at  some  nobler  shrine. 

Vet  the  love  which  you  have  taught  me 

Ne'er  shall  fade  within  my  breast. 
But  shall  beam  along  my  journey 

Like  a  sunbeam  from  the  west. 
If  when  you  are  lonely,  Lilian, 

You  should  bear  a  smile  for  me; 
Let  that  smile  be  as  the  sunlight 

On  a  dark  and  tronbl'd  sea — 
For  my  life  is  like  its  billows, 

Dark  and  gloomy  as  the  night ; 
Save  when  you  are  shedding  on  me 

Your  sweet  ray  of  morning  light. 


POEMS.  47 


Farewell,  Lilian!  if  forever 
We  should  thus  be  borne  apart, 

Think  of  me,  and  love  me  as  kindly 
As  I  have  loved  your  gentle  heart. 


SHE  FELL  LIKE  A  FLAKE  OF  SNOW. 

She  was  beautiful  once  ;  but  she  fell 
To  the  clay-stained  earth  below  ; 

Her  tender  form  came  down  to  die, 
As  softly  as  a  flake  of  snow. 

She  was  beautiful  once  ;  but  she  fell 

To  the  lowest  depth  of  woe  ; 
She  can  never  be  sp  >tless  again, 

And  as  pure  as  a  flake  of  snow. 

She  was  beautiful  once  ;  but  she  fell, 

And  some  said,  "let  her  go," 
For  she  can  never  shine  again 

Like  a  beautiful  flake  of  snow. 

8he  was  beautiful  once  ;  but  she  fell 

Just  three  sad  years  ago  ; 
She  fell  in  the  grave  of  sorrow, 

And  lay  like  a  flake  of  snow. 

Slw?  was  beautiful  once;  but  she  fell, 

Ne'er  to  rise  again,  ah,  no; 
She  fell  in  all  her  loveliness, 

And  vanish'd  like  a  flake  of  snow. 


48  P  O  H  M  S  . 

KEEP  SILENT,  HAND! 

Weak  hand  of  mine,  keep  silent  ever. 
If  this  bosom  beats  apart 

From  all  that  is  good  and  true; 
Pen  not  a  line  that  would  lead  to  vice, 
For  what  is  written  on  this  scroll 

Eternity  can  not  undo. 

Keep  silent,  hand  !  for  the  gift  to  tell 
The  thoughts  that  linger  in  this  heart 

Was  not  by  mankind  given: 
And  I  must  suffer  in  the  end 
For  ev'ry  word  I  hereon  trace 

That  would  keep  a  soul  from  heaven. 


SO-CALLED  FRIENDSHIP. 

WTe  call  it  "Friendship,"  yet  how  strange 
It  moves  in  this  cold  world  of  ours; 

It  may  he  just,  it  may  be  true, 
But  it  doesn't  live  in  nature's  bowers. 

>Tis  but  a  kind  of  unknown  being, 
Roaming  in  the  highest  spheres — 

If  you  grasp  it,  'twill  deceive  you 
By  the  holy  garb  it  often  wears. 

It  is  no  spirit  from  the  heavens, 

Nor  the  regions  of  the  dead  ; 
But  a  kind  of  unknown  demon 

Manufactured  in  the  head. 


POEMS.  4!) 


PRETTY  MISS  LOU. 

You  may  speak  of  the  lily  in  all  its  splendor, 
And  the  dear  little  violet  with  its  leaves  of  blue  ; 

These  may  be  lovely,  but  they  cannot  be  coinpar'd 
To  the  sweet,  gentle  face  of  my  charming  Miss  Lou. 

You  may  dream  of  your  visit  to  the  garden  of  love 
Where  your  heart  'mid  its  rapture  beat  never  untrue; 

This  may  be  the  brightest  fair  dream  of  your  life, 
But  mine  is  far  brighter  when  I  think  of  Miss  Lou. 

You  may  smile  at  the  mem'ry  of  those  rose-tint  cheeks 
That  once  press'd  your  bosom  with  a  pressure  too  true  ; 

That  mem'ry  may  be  sweet,  but  to  me  there  is  none 
So  dear  as  the  mem'ry  of  my  pretty  Miss  Lou. 

You  may  dote  on  that  love  that  too  often  is  shaken, 
And  may  treasure  the  ties  which  Time  may  undo  ; 

But  the  love  that  is  constant,  and  the  ties  that  are  firm, 
I  could  find,  if  she'd  let  me,  in  my  gentle  Miss  Lou. 

As  I  roam  in  life's  garden  of  sweet-scented  flowers, 
For  no  tenderer  bud  from  its  gems  will  I  sue 

Than  this  sweet  little  jonquil  that's  blooming  alone, 
And  it  is  none  other  than  my  charming  Miss  Lou. 


If  you  mean  for  me  not  to  love  you,-sweet  May, 
You  must  turn  those  dark  blue  eyes  away, 

And  let  me  not  see  them,  or  else  I  will  sue 
For  no  love  save  yours,  while  looking  on  you. 


50  POEMS. 

I  WTSH  I  WAS  THERE. 

I  wish  I  was  by  that  rippling  stream 
Where  oft  I  roamed  in  boyhood  days 

When  my  heart  was  young  and  gay, 
And  my  footsteps  light  and  swift 
As  the  wild  deer's  for  some  quiet  brook 

By  a  green  hill  far  away. 

I  wish  I  was  nigh  that  m  nsy  cliff 

From  whose  summit  I've  watched  the  sun 

At  the  close  of  day  depart, 
As  a  single  ray  from  its  golden  beam 
Would  kiss  my  cheek,  then  fade  away, 

As  love-light  fades  from  the  heart. 

I  wish  I  was  where  I  once  have  been, 
When  the  bloom  of  youth  was  on  my  cheek, 

And  hope  was  in  this  breast; 
When  the  tide  of  life  was  warm  with  truth, 
And  gentle  love  was  utmost  there, 

And  all  was  peace  and  rest. 

I  wish  I  was  young  and  had  no  CAKE 
To  draw  this  breast  adown  to  earth, 

And  till  these  eyes  with  tears; 
And  the  lily-hand  of  love  and  peace 
Had  the  same  sweet  touch  as  in  other  days. 

How  few  would  be  my  fears. 

I  wish  I  was  nigh  that  angel  face 
That  shone  in  early  days  so  fair — 

My  bright  and  morning  star  — 
Whose  downy  cheeks  that  so  oft  have  press'd 
This  bosom — have  left  an  impress  there 

Eternity  can  never  mar. 


POEMS.  51 

THE  WORKING  GIRL. 

S\veet  working-  girl — as  thou  dost  pass  along1  the  street, 

Pursuing  thy  humble,  honest  toil, 
Cursed  be  he  who  would  dare  to  cast  a  slur 

On  thee — thy  virtuous  name  to  spoil. 

Swctt  working  girl— I  love  to  view  the  happy  smiles 

On  thy  fair  and  ever-beaming  face — 
Thy  perfect  form,  tho'  devoid  of  rich  apparel, 

Is  lovelier  far  because  of  its  simple  grace. 

Sweet  working  girl;  tho'  thy  earthly  lot  seem  hard. 

And  faint  be  the  hope  within  thy  breast, 
Ytt  thou  ait  blest,  for  thro'  thy  faithfulness 

Thou  wilt  gain  Heaven's  eternal  rest. 

Sweet  working  girl — tho'  false  stars  shine  around  thee 

While  thy  cheeks  with  CARE  grow  pale, 
Take  courage  then,  for  there's  a  morning  star  that  glows 

For  thee — behind  life's  gloomy  veil. 

Sweet  working  girl— tho'  Fate  has  destined  thy  fair  hand 

To  labor  in  place  of  a  wayward  brother, 
Yet  Heaven  will  reward  thee  for  thy  honest  toil 

In  suppoit  of  thy  aged,  widow'd  mother. 


A  GLOOMY  PICTURE. 

From  early  youth  to  the  frost  of  age 
Man's  days  have  been  a  mixture 

Of  all  that  constitutes  in  life 
A  dark  and  gloomy  picture. 


52  POEMS. 

TO  LAURA. 

Ah,  Laura,  when  you  roam  in  dreams  of  solitude, 

And  your  smiles  grow  sad  as  dying  sunbeams  on  the  sea, 

Will  you  not,  'mid  those  hours  of  loneliness, 

Gaze  oft  on  these  true  lines  and  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Will  you  not,  at  night  when  those  bright  eyes  are  closed 
In  dreams,  and  you  recall  sweet  moments  past  and  gone, 

Think  of  me — and  from  some  pleasant  thought  may  you 
Learn  to  love  me  on  the  beautiful  rising  morn. 

Sweet  Laura,  I  love  the  sunlight  on  your  crimson  cheeks, 

And  the  gleam  of  hope  that  lingers  'round  your  placid  brow; 
1  love  them,  and  in  my  life's  most  dreary  hours 
They  shall  remain  to  me  as  dear  as  they  are  now. 

Fond  Laura,  if  e'er  your  loving  breast  shall  feel 

Lonely  and  forsaken  by  the  friends  you  once  held  dear, 

Think  of  me,  as  one  who  loves  you  truly  well, 
Though  I  in  your  fond  heart  may  have  no  share. 


THE   MIND. 

The  mind  that  cannot  create  worlds, 

Make  hills  and  mountains  great  and  small, 

And  streams  and  lakes,  and  thus  the  like. 
Is  to  my  mind — no  MIND  at  all. 

And  people,  too,  it  should  create, 
Of  ev'ry  class,  the  rich  and  poor — 

Woman  should  be  made  queen  of  all — 
Beautiful — then  nothing  more. 


P  O  E  M  5  •  53 

MAUD,  THE  MILL,  AXD  THE  LILY. 

I  hate  the  winding  path  that  leads 

Adowu  the  shadowy  glen; 
I  can  view  the  scenes  I  never  loved 

More  vividly  now  than  then. 

There  is  the  same  familiar  stream, 

Whose  waters  I  oft  have  drank, 
And  the  old  mill  pond,  from  whose  dark  edge 

I  oft,  so  oft  have  shrank. 

The  old  mill  house  is  standing  still 

Where  the  neighbors  ground  their  corn  ; 

The  night-owl  sleeps  beneath  its  roof 
When  the  nightly  shades  are  gone. 

Fast  to  the  door-post  and  the  roof 

The  melancholy  ivy  cleaves, 
While  high  above  the  gentle  winds 

Sigh  thro'  the  lonely  forest  leaves. 

Thro'  the  cracks  of  the  old  flood-gate 

The  blackish  waters  flow, 
Dashing,  foaming,  mingling  with 

The  angry  stream  below. 

I  hate  the  roaring,  chilly  sound, 

That  so  oft  did  greet  my  ear, 
Of  the  solemn  waters,  flowing  still 

Below  the  mill  house  drear. 

Beside  those  waters  once  there  sat 

A  being  clothed  in  white, 
With  slender  form  and  lily-hand, 

And  countenance  pure  and  bright. 


POEMS. 

Maud — for  her  gentle  name  was  Maud — 
Wore  many  smiles,  and  they  were  sad; 

A  thousand  virtues  she  retained, 
Many  of  which  I  never  had. 

Her  raven  locks  were  silken  soft, 
Dark  and  bright  her  sparkling- eyes; 

Her  face  was  like  the  summer  sun 
Glowing  in  the  eastern  skies. 

While  the  old  mill  wheel  shriekrd  and  roar'd 
Maud  would  often  watch  and  wait 

And  list  to  the  foaming  waters  pass 
Below  the  old  flood-gate. 

;Twas  in  sweet  May,  as  the  sinking  sun 
Was  shedding  o'er  the  hills  a  gleam, 

Maud,  who  loved  the  woodland  flowers, 
Wandered  down  beside  the  stream. 

The  eveningshades  soon  gather'd  'round, 
And  darkness  hover'd  o'er  her  path; 

No  sound  did  greet  her  lonely  ear 
Save  the  night-owFs  tickle  laugh. 

Dark  clouds  arose  and  slowly  passed, 
Hiding  the  stars  ahove  her  head — 

She  wander'd  by  the  lonely  stream 

Like  some  sweet  spirit  'round  the  dead. 

Maud  did  not  heed  the  roaring  sound 

Of  distant  thunder  in  the  west, 
Nor  did  she  fear  the  lightning's  flash 

Glist'ning  on  her  snowy  breast. 


Beside  those  waters  once  there  sat 
A  being  clothed  in  white, 

With  slender  form  and  lily-hand, 
And  countenance  pure  and  bright. 


P  O  E  M  S .  57 

The  wind  arose,  the  thunder  roar'd, 

The  forest  trees  fell  with  a  crash  ; 
No  living  thing  could  there  be  seen 

Save  little  Maud  in  the  lightning's  .flash. 

What  a  lovely  view  for  angels'  eyes 
To  have  looked  upon  that  gentle  form 

Clad  in  white,  and  slowly  moving 
In  the  dark,  terrific  storm. 

Close  by  the  stream  on  a  grassy  mound 

A  tender  lily  waved  in  sight — 
The  silvery  lightning  from  the  clouds 

Had  revealed  to  Maud  its  petals  white. 

She  stroll'd  toward  the  lily  fair, 

As  one  would  stroll  within  a  dream 
To  find  the  angel-form  they  loved 

And  lost — beyond  life's  sullen  stream. 

Maud's  gentle  feet  had  stray'd  too  near 
The  darkish  streamlet's  mossy  bank — 

She  stooped  and  plucked  the  lily  fair, 
But  both  beneath  the  waters  sank. 

Oh,  Maud  !  how  oft  have  I,  too,  stroll'd 

Beside  those  waters  at  your  side; 
How  often  have  I,  too,  revealed 

To  you  the  love  I  could  not  hide. 

How  often  have  I  gazed  into 

Your  dark  and  ever-beaming  eyes; 
While  gazing  there  have  I  not  felt 

My  bosom  freed  from  mortal  sighs? 


58  POEMS. 

Have  I  not  pressed  your  lily-hand, 
And  blushing  cheek  unto  this  breast; 

In  the  stillness  of  that  happy  hour 
Have  I  not  felt  the  sweetest  rest  ? 

Have  I  not  with  the  gentlest  touch 
Unbraided  your  locks  of  silken  hair, 

And  turning  your  dove-like  face  to  mine. 
Have  I  not  call'd  you  my  angel  fair  ? 

I  hate  the  lily,  hate  the  stream, 
That  solemn  flow  of  angry  waters, 

But,  oh,  how  sweet  to  think  of  Maud, 
The  fairest  of  the  miller's  daughters. 

I  hate  the  path  that  leads  adown 
Beside  the  lone  and  dreary  mill — 

The  shadows  of  that  blackish  pond 
Are  painful  to  my  memory  still. 


HOW  STRANGELY  DARK. 

Her  dark  eyes — I  would  that  they  were  not  like  mine, 

So  strangely  dark  ; 
I  would  that  they  had  less  of  human  passion's 

Deep  burning  spark. 

T  dare  not — e'en  when  bidding  her  form  adieu, 

Hold  her  warm  hand; 
For  there  would  come  a  flame  from  her  bright  eyes 

I  could  n't  withstand. 


POEMS.  f>9 

AN  OUTCAST  PEARL. 
D  >wn  in  the  heart  of  that  newly  open'd  bud, 
Tried  by  the  wind  of  m  vny  a  troubled  gale, 

Lies  the  destiny  of  a  being  young  and  fair; 
The  peace  and  joy  that  might  have  reigned  within 
That  tender  heart  that  never  dreamed  of  sin, 

Are  gone,  alas!  forever  buried  there. 

So  kind  and  gentle  she  grew  into  her  teens 
(Close  beside  the  dingy  rose  of  baffled  love) 

Too  purely  beautiful  for  earthly  care — 
Her  heart  was  young — too  innocent  and  young 
To  dream  of  the  shame  a  fallen  mother  brings 

On  the  child  she  once  held  tenderly  and  dear. 

In  girlhood  days  she'd  seen  the  deeds  of  vice 

That  blight  the  home  where  happiness  would  reign, 

And  cloud  the  sunlight  on  its  grassy  lawn — 
She'd  lived,  she'd  loved — and  yet  she  had  not  lived 
Since  life's  fond  hopes  had  faded  in  her  breast — 

To  live  without  hope  one  had  better  ne'er  been  born. 

'Twas  faultless  love  which  heaven  bade  her  bear 
For  her  upon  whose  bosom  she'd  slept  in  infancy, 

Unconscious  of  her  lone,  mysterious  birth — 
The  stain  of  that  mother's  sin  which  she  in  after  years 
Must  e'er  endure,  had  made  her  nothing  else 

Than  an  outcast  pearl  in  the  miry  slums  of  earth. 

An  outcast  pearl ! — but  what  else  could  that  angel  be 
In  this  condemning  world  of  sin  and  strife, 

Tho'  her  heart  be  as  pure  as  the  highest  flakes  of  snow? — 
She  was  tempted  and  tried,  but  never  did  she  sin, 
Tho'  borne  on  the  hard  and  ever-cruel  breast 

Of  one  whose  highest  aim  was  all  that  was  mean  and  low. 


Along  tlm/life  she'd  watched  the  downward  course 
Of  her  whose  guilty  sins  she  too  must  bear, 

Unable,  alas!  to  change  or  rectify  that  course — 
She'd  prayed  from  early  youth  till  girlhood  days 
For  deeds  that  might  not  stain  her  life  in  after  years, 

But,  alas!    she  could    not  close  that   fountain's  hellish 
source. 

Why  should  she  be  horn  within  a  world  like  this, 
Where  a  pure  girl  is  forever  cast  aside 

If  she  cannot  boast  of  her  parents7  virtuous  name, 
While  the  sin-stained  heart  is  honor'd  and  beloved 
Because  of  the  garb  of  righteousness  it  Wears 

To  shield  from  human  eyes  its  misery  and  shame. 

Ofttimes  she  sat  on  her  lonely  porch  at  eve 
As  the  golden  sunbeams  kissed  her  gentle  feet, 

On  the  solemn  verge  of  each  departing  day  ; 
She  watch 'd  those  beam-!  till  they  withdrew  their  gold, 
And  thought  how  sweet  if  she  could  only  go 

With  those  soft  beams,  and  forever  fade  away. 

The  shadows  that  gather'd  'round  her  humble  home 
Were  darken'd,  alas!  by  the  breath  of  human  scorn, 

Yet  heaven's  sunbeams  delighted  to  kiss  her  feet, 
And  leave  their  pew,  3  upon  her  lonely  brow, 
And  their  fond  hope  within  her  weary  heart, 

These  latter  gifts  t,»  her  were  most  divinely  sweet. 

To-day  she  stands  in  all  her  tenderness, 
Alone,  forsaken  by  m  mkind  and  her  sex, 

A  pearl  too  pure  t.»  gra  -e  an  angel's  breast — 
She  must  live,  then  die,  and  I  hen  be  laid  away 
In  some  lone  spot — jerh  ips  a  desert  tit  Id — 

And  then  her  pure,  angelic  spirit  will  be  at  rest. 


POEMS.  61 

No  human  form  will  stand  beside  that  lonely  grave 
When  she  is  gone,  and  shed  a  sympathizing  tear 

For  her  who  sleeps  in  true  forgetfulness  ; 
Kind  Nature  will  waft  o'er  her  its  gentle  breeze 
And  plant  sweet  violets  'round  her  sinless  head — 

For  Nature  loved  her  more — humankind  the  less. 


YOU'LL  NEVER  SEE  IT. 

(On  being  asked  by  a  young  lady,  just  after  a  renowned  Northern 
journal  had  given  my  works  a  page  of  complimentary  review,  if  my  hat 
was  not  "too  small  for  my  head.") 

You'll  never  see  this  head  too  large  for  my  hat, 
You  may  watch  it  and  feel  it  as  oft  as  you  choose; 

But  you'll  learn,  as  millions  of  people  have  learned, 
Of  my  character  and  name  thro'  my  innocent  muse. 

You'll  never  see  this  form  clad  in  gaudy  apparel, 

Nor  these  feet  playing  the  "dude"  in  patent-leather  shoes; 

But  your  childrens'  children  will  some  day  read 
Some  pleasant  quotations  from  my  innocent  muse. 


DEVOTION. 

I  know  a  white  hand  that  will  place 
A  bunch  of  violets  o'er  this  face 

When  I  am  gone — 

Sweet  violets  from  beneath  the  bowers 
Where  I  have  spent  my  happiest  hours 

In  life's  sweet  morn. 


P  O  E  M  8 . 

HOPE,  SWEET  HOPE  ! 

Ob,  Hope,  sweet  Hope!  resplendent  ray  I 
Thou  hast  promised  this  heart  a  brighter  day 

A  day  of  joy  and  peace  ; 
For  me  thou  hast  upon  thy  gilded  beam 
The  sunlight  of  a  happier  dream 

Ere  my  days  shall  cease. 

Oh,  Hope,  sweet  Hope  !  why  longer  wait  ? 
Soon  youth  is  past,  and  'tis  too  late 

For  the  boon  for  which  I  sigh  ; 
The  glow  of  dark  eyes  will  be  dim, 
Encircled  by  ill-health's  darken'd  rim, 

And  smiles  grow  co)d  and  die. 

Oh,  Hopey  sweet  Hope!  this  weary  breast 
Fain  would  call  on  thee  for  rest 

From  ev'ry  inmost  care; 
Earth's  joy  and  peace  can  ne'er  be  mine 
While  that  resplendent  ray  of  thine 

Brings  no  fond  object  near. 

Oh,  Hope,  sweet  Hope!  to  thee  I  bowr 
I've  waited  long,  am  waiting  ROW 

To  realize  thy  bliss; 
$oon  in  the  grave  this  form  shall  lie, 
Mouldering  'neath  yon  star-lit  sky — 

Dead  to  thy  raptur'd  kiss-. 


f  have  promised  her  ne'er  to  mention  her  sweet  name  again  ; 
But,  oh,  how  the  fulfillment  of  that  promise  gives  me  pain. 


P  O  EMS.  «3 

THE  MIDNIGHT  HOUR. 
'Tis  midnight— that  most  solemn  hour  in  life, 
When  stern  Nature,  growing  weary  with  stillness, 
Lays  her  head  upon  the  lap  of  Almighty  God; 
And  there  without  a  troubled  dream  she  lies, 
Breathing  as  an  infant  on  its  mother's  breast, 
While  poor  mankind  must  sleep  the  sleep  of  death. 

The  sleep  of  death  ! — For  what  is  that  dread  hour 

To  the  human  soul  but  an  hour  of  conscious  pain 

Borne  by  the  vision  of  a  mysterious  realm  ? 

A  realm  beyond  the  grave  where  al!  must  tend 

To  gather  with  the  countless  millions  that  have  pass'd 

Along  that  journey — in  happiness  or  \vo3. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  ev'ry  human  heart  must  learn 
What  it  hath  gained  in  life,  and  what  it  costs. to  die 
With  an  account  unbalanced  for  eternity — 
When  the  last  fond  ray  of  hope  must  fade  away 
As  a  golden  sunbeam  behind  the  western  clouds, 
Leaving  the  human  soul  in  shadows  dark  to  roam. 

'Tis  midnight — when  we  awake — if  awake  we  must, 

In  tears — to  think  of  those  we've  early  loved 

And  lost,  and  whose  fond  memory  brings 

The  dawn  of  other  sunny  days  around  us 

When  spring-tide's  roses  bloom'd  beside  our  path, 

Only  to  fade  in  the  hour  of  midnight  gloom. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  life's  star  flickers  low 
On  the  verge  of  death's  descending  cloud, 
Behind  whose  summit  there  may  be  peace 
And  a  silvery  lining  for  us,  poor  mankind, 
Whose  life,  ambition,  all,  are  center'd  in  the  hope 
Of  some  eternal  star  beyond  this  vale  of  tears. 


64  POEMS. 

"THROUGH  STORM  ON  EARTH  TO  PEACE 
IN  HEAVEN." 

The  following  lines  were  suggested  on  seeing  a  very  aad  and  beautiful 
picture  in  a  magazine  not  long  since,  entitled:  "Through  Storm  on 
Earth  to  Peace  in  Heaven." 

On  a  tumultuous  sea,  dasfoed  by  the  waves  is  a  frail  little  hark,  rowed 
by  an  aged  Prophet.  Lying  on  two  beams  across  the  boat  is  a  bier  on 
which  lies  the  lifeless  form  of  a  beautiful  young  girl,  with  hands  crossed 
on  her  bosom,  and  face  turned  slightly  to  one  side.  Bending  o'er  this 
fair  figure,  as  if  in  the  act  of  imparting  a  farewell  kiss,  is  the  weeping 
mother.  On  the  bosom  of  the  departed  one  lies  a  wreath  of  fresh 
immortelles.  White  roses  lie  upon  her  feel. 

Beneath  the  dark  and  gloomy  clouds 

The  little  bark  is  tempest  driven, 
See  it  ride  upon  the  billows 

"Thro' storm  on  earth  to  peace  in  heaven." 

Bee  the  brave  old  Prophet  standing 

With  shining-  oar  in  faithful  hand, 
Battling  'gainst  the  rag-ing  tempest 

Thro'  earthly  storm  to  a  sunny  land. 

See  the  mother  bending'  lowly 

O'er  the  cold  and  lifeless  form 
Of  her  fair  and  sinless  child, 

Passing  thro'  life's  beating  storm. 

See  the  foaming  billows  dashing; 

Almost  o'er  the  slender  bark 
As  it  floats  within  the  tempest 

On  the  waters  lone  and  dark. 


POEMS.  05 


But  the  Prophet  steers  it  onward, 

Tho'  its  beam  be  almost  riven. 
To  that  fair,  eternal  shore, 

Beyond  life's  storm  to  peace  in  heaven. 

Hear  him  speak  to  the  weeping  mother, 
In  whose  heart  is  grief  and  pain— 

''Have  faith,  and  you  shall  s  >on  be  where 
Your  precious  child  will  live  again." 

"Many  a  spotless  soul  I've  rowed 
O'er  these  waters  lone  and  dark; 

But  a  PURER  form  I  ne'er  have  borne 
Than  she  who  sleeps  in  this  lone  bark." 

Hear  the  mother  faintly  whisper, 
As  darker  grows  the  chilly  night, 

"Oh,  Prophet,  Saviour,  tell  me  when 
I  shall  see  just  a  ray  of  light?" 

"Have  faith,"  the  Prophet  firmly  spoke, 
"And  soon  you'll  reach  the  eternal  shore, 

Where  your  loved-one  will  be  happy, 
And  at  sweet  rest  forever-more." 

Thro'  the  darkness  peers  the  mother, 

As  the  Prophet  rows  them  on — 
"Oh,"  she  says,  "I  see  the  sunlight 

Of  a  fair  and  glorious  morn  !" 

Soon  they  reach  ttaat  shining  harbor 
Where  mortal  sins  are  all  forgiven — 

She  passed,  as  I  and  you  must  pass, 
"Thro'  storm  on  earth  to  peace  in  Heaven." 


P  O  E  M  S  , 
HAIL,  THOU  QUEEN!— ATLANTA! 

(Written  during  the  Exposition.) 

Queen  of  the  South!  arrayed  in  white, 

All  eyes  are  now  upon  thee 
O'er  this  great  nation,  far  and  wide, 

And  across  the  dark  blue  sea. 

Men  and  maidens  flock  to  thee, 
Like  birds  unto  a  sunny  clime, 

To  feel  thy  warmth  and  view  thy  grace, 
And  hear  thy  gay  bells  sweetly  chime. 

Upon  thy  breast  a  wreath  of  lilies 
Adorn  thy  being,  rich  and  fair; 

The  rose  of  many  a  sunny  land 
Clusters  in  thy  golden  hair. 

Hail  thou  Queen  !  whose  gentle  hand 
Bears  no  trace  of  gloomy  fetters  ; 

Upon  thy  faithful  heart  is  graven, 
"Welcome,"  in  golden  letters. 

Thy  feet  are  firm,  and  shall  endure 
To  reach  ambition's  lofty  height; 

Thine  arm  is  love,  and  must  prevail 
To  lead  from  darkness  into  light. 

Hail,  thou  Queen  of  Southern  beauty! 

Decked  with  jewels  rich  and  rare; 
Wisdom,  honor,  love,  ambition, 

Dwell  beneath  thy  golden  hair. 


P  O  E  M  S .  87 

CAN  YOU  BLAME  ME? 

We  have  looked  on  each  other  too  oft  in  this  life — 
Your  smiles  from  my  eyes  were  not  hid — 

Can  you  blame  me  for  loving  your  matchless  face 
As  fondly  and  dearly  as  I  did  ? 

The  memory  of  your  dark  blue,  passionate  eyes, 

Oh,  say,  can  I  ever  get  rid 
Of  that  heavenly  dream,  and  the  sunlight  of  love, 

That  so  tenderly  shown  from  each  lid. 

From  that  streamlet  of  love  in  your  beautiful  heart 

How  sweet  if  my  soul  could  but  drink, 
And  bathe  'mid  the  lilies  in  its  crystal  waters, 

And  rest  on  its  moss-cover'd  brink. 


HOW  SWEET. 

How  sweet  when  our  lonely  soul  grows  weary, 

And  our  tired  feet  need  rest, 
To  recline  'neath  the  shade  of  the  willow  tree, 

Pillow'd  on  a  maiden's  breast. 

To  feel  a  passion  pure  within  us, 
And  not  the  one  that  seeks  to  rob 

That  beautiful  virtue  underlying 
Her  peaceful  bosom's  honest  throb. 

To  know  you  can  withstand  temptation, 
And  cause  no  pang  of  pain  and  grief 

To  wound  that  breast  resigned  to  you, 
As  spotless  as  the  lily's  leaf. 


68  POEMS 

FEW  WOULD  RETURN. 

Few  are  they  that  have  journey'd  here  below 
Who  have  not  seen  their  brightest  hopes  decay  — 

That  would  retrace  their  steps  from  youth  to  age. 
And  see  again  those  fond  hopes  pass  away. 

Few  are  they  that  would  return  in  life, 

No  matter  how  bright  their  journey  may  have  been, 
And  travel  the  same  old  familiar  path, 

And  view  and  love  again  what  they  could  never  win. 

Few  are  they  that  would  consent  to  go 

Back  to  the  shrine  where  they  knelt  in  other  days, 

And  loved  and  lost,  and  spent  their  after  years 

In  the  mem'ry  of  some  harp-string's  plaintive  lays. 

Few  are  they  that  would  tread  the  rugged  path 
That  leads  adown  the  valley  of  grief  and  care, 

And  see  again  what  their  own  eyes  have  seen, 
And  shed,  alas!  the  same  embitter'd  tear. 

Few  are  they  that  would  retrace  life's  path, 
No  matter  how  bright  its  sun  or  sweet  its  dew — 

The  hand  of  love  would  be  a  wither'd  hand, 

And  the  bosom  of  truth  would  beat,  alas!  untrue. 


I'D  RATHER  OWN  HER  LOVE. 

I'd  rather  own  the  love  of  that  modest  little  maiden 
Who  lives  in  a  lonely  cottage  between  two  gentle  rills, 

Than  to  win  the  greatest  fame  all  this  world  can  give, 
Or  own  the  fatted  cattle  on  a  thousand  grassy  hills. 


POEMS. 

I  DISLIKE  A  VAIN  AND  HAUGHTY  MAN. 

If  I  must  rise  by  haughty  steps 
To  the  golden  heights  that  lead  to  fame, 

Then  I  prefer  to  remain  below, 

Behind  an  humble,  Christian  name, 

I  dislike  a  vain  and  haughty  man, 
However  bright  his  future  may  be; 

He  must  lie  down  within  the  dust, 
And  lay  aside  his  vanity, 

I'm  sorry  for  that  mortal  man 
Who  treads  up;ni  God's  holy  clay, 

Too  vain  to  lend  a  helping  hand 
To  one  that  has  fallen  by  the  way, 

If  I  should  rise  to  lofty  heights, 
An  humble  heart  shall  be  thereon; 

And  tho'  you  may  be  far  below, 
Remember,  YOU  I  shall  not  scorn. 

For  what  tho'  I  obtain  the  praise 

Of  human  lips  both  far  and  wide, 
A  worm  of  dust  I  still  must  t>e, 

Drifting  on  life's  gloomy  tide. 


LIVE  HONEST;  BE  KIND. 

Much  thought  and  the  pen  will  accomplish  all  things, 
You  must  think  and  be  wise  in  the  thought  you  pursue- 

Live  honest,  be  kind,  and  you'll  surely  succeed, 

And  the  world  be  made  brighter  by  having  known  you. 


70  P  O  E  M  S  . 

THE  DAYS  OF  MY  YOUTH. 

(On  re-visiting  the  home  of  my  boyhood.) 

Would  that  the  friends  I  loved  in  youth 

Were  close  beside  me  here  to-day, 
On  this  loved  spot  where  we  once  played 

When  our  hearts  were  young  and  gay. 

How  sweet  would  be  each  moment  now, 

If  I  but  only  once  again 
Could  form  the  self-same  group  beside 

These  violets  in  the  lane. 

'Round  this  hallow'd  spot  there  float 

Sweet  memories  of  the  past, 
Of  dear  associations  gone — 

They  were  too  fond  to  last. 

'Twas  'neath  this  drooping  willow  tree 

T  sat  alone — without  a  name* — 
At  school  with  nature's  God  to  learn 

The  hidden  path  that  leads  to  fame. 

'Twas  here  I  linger'd  in  the  twilight 

With  no  teacher  at  my  knee 
Save  kind  Nature  with  her  flowers, 

And  a  bosom  full  and  free. 

Full  and  free  with  radiant  hope 

Like  a  ray  of  glorious  light, 
Pointing  this  young  and  tender  heart 

To  the  path  of  Truth  and  Right, 

*  The  author  never  was  named  in   childhood  by  his  parent,*,  kut  was 
left  the  pleasure  of  selecting  his  given-name  at  the  age  of  fourteen. 


POEM  8.  71 


'Twas  here  I  learned  that  solemn  truth 
That  the  life  to  pleasure  given 

Will  never  reach  its  shining  goal 
On  this  bright  side  of  heaven. 

Each  violet  as  it  bloomed  beside 
My  humble  feet  in  morning  dew, 

Taught  me  that  the  purest,  noblest  life, 
Must  be  begun  when  hope  is  new. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDGAR  W.  NYE. 

How  strange  is  Nature!  and  the  workings 
Of  the  great  invisible  God 

Whose  doings  are  just  and  right; 
Who  preserves  the  spark  that  ne'er  can  glow  — 
The  dullest  of  humankind — 

Yet  quenches  the  brightest  light. 

How  strange,  indeed,  and  wondrous  wise 
Must  be  that  gracious  Hand 

Whose  works  we  can  ne'er  undo, 
That  it  should  spare  the  dull,  illiterate  mind 
Rather  than  the  flame  of  genius 
Is  alas!  too  sadly  true. 

Can  it  be  Death  ? — Shall  we  not  hear  again 
In  eternity — some  where — 

The  voice  of  him  who  once  spake 
To  cheer  the  gloomy  lives  of  humankind? 
Bringing  joy  and  gladness 

To  hearts  that  fain  would  break. 


72  P  O  E  M  8 . 

UN  FORGIVEN— ADIEU  ! 
Good-.by! — another  sun  is  sinking, 
Shedding  its  golden  beams  about 

Our  youthful  feet — 
I  stand  'neath  the  canopy  of  heaven 
Close  by  your  side,  but  unforgiven 

By  your  lips  sweet. 
'Tis  true  I  may  have  caused  you  pain, 
And  your  sweet  eyes  sometimes  a  tear 

To  dim  their  hue; 

But  you,  in  youth's  sweet  bloom  I  trust 
Will  not  esteem  me  e'er  unjust — 

My  heart  untrue. 
For  I,  as  sure  as  yonder  sun 

Scatters  its  crimson  on  your  cheeks, 

Have  loved  your  heart  ; 
Have  shielded  you  amid  life's  fears, 
Helped  you  to  dry  your  bitterest  tears — 

Yet  we  must  part! 
Can  you,  as  mem'ry  calls  you  back 
To  the  happy  moments  we've  spent  upon 

Yon  dewy  hill, 

Now  deem  this  heart  too  false  and  low 
To  be  looked  upon,  save  as  a  foe 

You'd  gladly  ki)l? 
Twas  there,  amid  the  dew  of  heaven, 
I  held  your  gentle  hand  too  oft 

To  deem  you  false; 

I've  always  found  you  pure  and  chaste  ; 
Man's  arms  have  ne'er  entwined  your  waist — 

You  did  not  "waltz." 


UNFORGIVEX— ADIEU ! 

But  still  you  unforgiving  stand, 
Turning  from  me  those  gentle  eyes, 
So  sweet  and  true. 


POEMS.  T5 


But  still  you  unforgiving  stand, 
Turning  from  me  those  gentle  eyes, 

So  sweet  and  true  ; 

You  have  suggested  that  we  should  part, 
Then  here's  my  hand — you  have  my  heart— 
Good-by !  adieu ! 


CHRIST  ON  CALVARY. 

See  him  as  he  hangs  beside  the  guilty  thieves, 
Reviled,  coridernn'd,  and  forever  cast  aside; 

See  him  as  he  views  his  well-beloved  friends, 
Thirsting  for  the  blood  of  his  own  precious  side. 

See  his  hands  thro'  which  the  nails  were  driven, 
The  accursed  nails  by  an  unrelenting  Jew; 

Hear  his  voice,  as  he  views  the  cruel  throng: 
"Father  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

See  the  sharp  spear  as  it  glistens  in  the  light 
Of  the  self-same  sun  that  shines  on  you  and  me; 

See  it  pierce  his  pure  and  spotless  side, 
Hear  the  warm  blood  as  it  trickles  down  the  tree. 

Hear  him  as  he  groans  in  agony  and  pain  • 
As  he  views  his  friends  in  the  condemning  throng; 

Those  who  cast  green  palms  beneath  his  feet 
As  down  to  Jerusalem  he  passed  along. 

See  him  as  he  hangs,  a  pure  and  sinless  soul, 
Rejected,    accursed— for  many  an  oath  was  hurl'd 

On  him  who  died  on  Calvary's  tree 
To  redeem  forever  a  sin  cursed  world. 


76  POEMS. 

WHEN  WE  WERE  YOUNG. 

Oh,  lovely  form,  begirt  in  life's  resplendent  morn 

With  flowers  boo  pure  to  bloom  around  my  wayward  feet, 

I  look  on  thee,  only  to  repeat  those  fitting  vows 
I  oft  have  vowed — that  we  no  more  should  meet. 

Upon  yon  hill — if  thou'll  consent  to  there  retrace 
Our  footsteps  made  in  the  sands  of  other  years — 

I'll  carry  thee  back,  away  across  yon  sparkling  rill 

To  the  lonely  heights  where  we  shed  our  first  sad  tears. 

The  dew  is  there — upon  the  grass  leaves  hang  the  drops, 
And  the  flowers  have  drank  thereof  till  they  are  sweet — 

'Twill  but  remind  us  of  those  moments  long  since  gone, 
When  the  same  sweet  drops  once  copied  our  burning  feet. 

When  we  were  young,  and  the  first  sweet  beam  of  hope 
Glowed  warm  and  true  within  each  peaceful  breast, 

And  love  supreme  was  an  ever-present  guest, 
Save  in  that  still  hour  when  passion  broke  our  rest. 

Oh,  why  was  that  burning  spirit  lingering  there, 
Melting  our  hearts  into  one  imperfect  heart  ? 

And  bearing  that  bliss  which  sin  too  often  bears 
To  hearts  that  are  as  ONK,  and  cannot  beat  apart. 


IN  ATLANTA 

Let  me  rest  'mid  the  atmosphere  I  love, 
And  my  last  repose  will  be  sweet,  serene; 

I  love  that  beautiful  love  that  lives 

For  one  whom  the  eyes  have  never  seen. 


POEMS.  77 

TO  ONE  WHO   IS  ALL   LOVELINESS. 

From  thy  eyes,  as  from  the  sunlight  beaming 
O'er  the  distant  hills  tinged  with  autumn's  hue, 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  love  so  long  enticing 
My  very  soul  into  a  haven  sweet  and  new. 

Sweet  and  new — a  home  of  tenderness, 

'Round  whose  shrine  no  shadows  ever  rest; 

But  love  supreme  in  all  its  gentleness 
Fills  the  sweet  chamber  of  thy  snowy  breast. 

I  love  the  sunlight  'round  thy  placid  brow, 

And  the  smiles  that  linger  on  each  dimpled  cheek; 

They  draw  me  up,  as  sunbeams  draw  the  flower, 
And  m-ike  me  strong  when  I  am  truly  weak. 

I  love  thy  hand,  so  firm  in  truthfulness, 
So  kind  and  gentle  in  its  every  sphere — 

To  know  thy  b  )som  is  all  constancy, 

While  mine's  so  fickle — is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Had  thy  fair  face  been  veiled  before  mine  eyes, 
And  only  thy  faint  voice  my  ears  did  greet; 

Then  I  had  learned  wThat  now  I  truly  know, 

That  thou  art  all  LOVE,  and  gentleness  complete. 


FAREWELL!  FOR  A  TIME. 

Farewell,  sweet  Muse!  my  dearest  companion, 
Thou  hast  given  this  heart  no  feeling  of  pain ; 

Some  day,  ere  the  setting  of  life's  purple  sun, 

When  my  pathway  is  brighter,  I'll  recall  thee  again. 


7*  P  O  K  M  S . 

FAREWELL,  SWEET  COLLEGE  GIRL! 

Farewell,  ye  milk-white  dove,  farewell! 

This  parting  gives  me  pain  ; 
To  think,  perhaps,  I  ne'er  shall  see 

Thy  gentle  form  again. 

Farewell ! — but  thy  sweet  blooming  face, 

Fresh  as  the  dewy  morn, 
Will  leave  its  impress  on  this  heart 

Long  after  thou  art  gone. 

Farewell  !  and  if  e'er  thine  azure  eyes 

Shall  feel  the  dint  of  care, 
Look  up  to  Him  whose  loving  hand 

Will  dry  each  bitter  tear. 

Farewell,  ye  milk-white  dove,  farewell ! 

If  on  earth  we  meet  no  more, 
May  in  that  snow-white  throng  of  love 

We  meet  on  yonder  shore. 

MARRIAGE  AND  DEATH. 

Marriage  and  death— these  great  events  in  life, 
Alas  !  with  each  other  are  blended; 

A  festive  scene  and  a  funeral  march, 
And  man's  brief  journey  is  ended. 

A  marriage  puff,  and  a  funeral  notice 

Is  the  end  of  his  transient  tale, 
And  he  vanishes  from  human  sight 

Beyond  life's  dark  and  gloomy  veil. 


POEMS,  78 

SIDE  BY  SIDE,  SOME  DAY, 

You  may  laugh  at  affliction, 
And  shun  the  poor  wretch 

As  he  drags  along  life's  rugged  way; 
But  remember,  your  feet 
Now  nimble  and  strong, 

May  be  wither'd  and  weary  some  day. 

You  may  spurn  the  poor  wretch 
Whose  garments  are  torn, 

But  whose  heart  may  be  honest  and  true; 
Yet  think  of  this  well, 
As  sure  as  you  live 

Some  affliction  will  fall  upon  you. 

Should  he  come  to  your  chamber 
On  a  cold  winter  night 

You  would  surely  turn  him  away; 
Little  thinking  that  you 
Must  sleep  by  his  side 

Some  day  in  the  mouldering  clay. 


SHE'S  ILL. 

This  Christmas,  with  all  its  mirth  and  joy, 

Will  not  be  enjoyed  by  me, 
For  the  one  whom  I  love  is  ill  at  her  home 

On  the  banks  of  the  Congaree. 

How  could  I  join  in  the  circle  of  pleasure, 

Tho'  ever-so  enticing  it  be, 
While  my  dear  little  lady  lies  ill  at  her  home 

On  the  banks  of  the  Cougaree, 


SO  P  ()  E  M  S  . 

I  CANNOT  THINK  THAT  I'LL  BE  LOST  FOREVER. 

I  cannot  think  that  I'll  be  lost  forever 

For  the  little  sins  that  swell  this  human  breast 

While  in  this  transitory  life 
Where  I  have  never  had  a  day  of  peace  and  rest. 

I  cannot  think  that  in  this  cloudy  world 
Where  I  exist  'mid  its  many,  many  cares, 

That  after  death  I'll  be  borne  away 

By  an  unforgiving  hand  that  wipes  away  no  tears. 

I  cannot  think  that  in  this  world  of  sin 
Where  I  was  forced  without  my  own  consent, 

That  I'll  be  dcom'd  to  hell  at  last, 

Without  a  second  chance  to  e'er  repent. 


TO  AMY. 

I  will  drink  to  your  health,  sweet  Amy, 
For  there's  nothing  in  this  cup,  I  fear, 

That  would  be  suggestive  of  sorrow 
For  my  own  sweet  Amy,  dear. 

May  your  heart  be  pure  and  noble, 
And  your  arm  be  firm  and  strong, 

And  your  hope  be  like  the  rainbow, 
Beautiful,  bright  and  long. 

May  your  life,  like  the  rose  of  summer, 
Be  fresh,  and  remain  in  its  bud, 

As  I  never  was  partial  to  whiskey,  Amy, 
111  toast  you  in  Congaree  mud. 


(FOURTH   VOLUME.) 


DEDICATED  TO  THE  SONS  AND  DAUGHTERS 
OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


82  P  O  E  M  S  , 

SOUTH  CAROL  I N  A. 

Thou  fond  home  of  our  early  childhood  days, 

On  thy  loved  soil  we've  spent  our  happiest  hours; 

We've  basked  in  the  beams  of  thy  noon-tide  sun, 
And  have  sat  in  the  shade  of  thy  sweet  bowers. 

Upon  thy  hills,  in  youth  and  manhood  years, 

We've  bathed  in  the  dew  of  thy  resplendent  morn; 

The  flowers  that  bloom'd  beside  our  youthful  feet 
To  niem'ry  have  grown  sweeter— none  are  gone. 

Beside  thy  streams  we've  caught  the  pleasant  sound 
Of  rippling  waters,  flowing  onward  to  the  sea — 

The  most  familiar,  on  which  we  fain  would  dwell, 
Is  thy  fair  stream,  the  beautiful  Congaree. 

In  thy  green  fields,  from  early  morn  till  eve, 
We've  seen  the  ploughman  till  thy  fertile  soil — 

When  the  autumn  leaves  'round  his  path  were  strewn 
We've  seen  him  gather  the  fruit  of  his  honest  toil. 

In  thy  cool  meadows  we've  heard  the  happy  notes 
Of  sweet  birds  mingled  with  the  pleasant  sound 

Of  the  distant  bells  of  the  approaching  herd. 
Whose  nimble  footsteps  were  heard  upon  the  ground. 

On  thy  sweet  lawns  we've  viewed  the  perfect  form 
Of  the  angel  who  sat  beneath  thy  shady  trees, 

Fairer  than  the  blushing  rose  of  early  spring, 
Made  lovelier  by  thy  pure  and  balmy  breeze. 

'Round  thy  hearth,  beside  thy  happy  shrine, 
We've  bowed,  but  have  shed  no  guilty  tear — 

The  life  we've  spent  upon  thy  peaceful  soil 
Has  been  too  calm  to  e'en  suspicion  fear. 


POEMS.  88 

TO  THE  YOUNG  UNJUST  CRITIC. 

Challenge  me  to  fight  on  the  open  field, 

And  hurl  at  my  head  the  fiery  dart, 
Rather  than  belittle  the  gentle  muse 

That  issues  from  this  lonely  heart. 

Young  man — you  who  never  aspired 
To  soar  no  higher  than  where  you  are — 

As  no  ambition  burns  within  you, 
Try  not  to  extinguish  another's  star. 

In  you  there  may  much  genius  be — 

A  gift  that  often  leads  to  fame 
If  used  aright— but  you  are  dead 

To  that  true  sense  which  makes  a  name. 

If  you  in  your  self-wisdom  feel 

Constrained  to  criticise  my  muse, 
Let  it  be  JUST,  and  then  you  may 

Just  criticise  it  when  you  choose. 


COLUMBIA. 

Beautiful  city,  with  thy  cool,  shady  groves, 
And  picturesque  hills,  and  sweet-scented  bowers, 

Where  the  sweet  dews  of  heaven  in  the  stillness  of  morn 
Refresh  the  pure  lips  of  thy  innocent  flowers. 

'Round  thy  houses  and  lawns  there's  a  sunbeam  of  love, 
And  a  gleam  of  sweet  peace  encircles  thy  walls; 

True  Friendship  and  Love  is  the  motto  that  hangs 
O'er  the  broad-open'd  door  to  thy  peace-laden  halls. 


84  POEMS. 

WE  PART  TO-NIGHT. 

We  part  to-night — perhaps  it  may  he  well 
To  sever  the  tie  that  bore  that  magic  spell 

Ere  my  heart  grew  wild  ; 

We've  naught  to  regret,  for  we've  loved  each  other 
As  fondly  and  dearly  as  a  devoted  mother 

For  her  absent  child. 

We  part  in  peace — never  to  meet  again 
As  oft  we've  met  down  In  the  grassy  lane 

'Neath  fragrant  bowers, 
Where  the  dew  of  heaven,  fresh  and  sweet 
As  that  of  love,  fell  'round  our  feet 

In  the  morning  hours. 

We  shed  no  tears — for  tears  can  never  rise 
From  a  still  fount  to  lonely  beaming  eyes 

When  fond  love  is  gone; 
We  loved  once,  and  can  never  love  again, 
That  love  has  cost  us  many  an  aching  pain 

Since  sweet  hope  has  flown. 
We'll  meet  no  more — not  in  this  vale  of  tears 
Where  we  have  spent  so  many  changing  years 

Of  sunshine  and  frost ; 
So  let  it  be — for  soon  we  two  shall  hide 
In  the  cold  tomb — no  longer  to  abide 

Where  ve've  loved  and  lost. 


THAT  ROSE. 
So  charmingly  beautiful, 

Seemingly  kind; 
Bo  sweet  was  that  rose 

I  wished  it  was  mine. 


P  O  E  M  R .  -85 

A  VIOLET  AND  A  JONQUIL, 

A  poor  little  violet  once  blooni'd  iti  the  morn, 
But  it  fell  from  the  jar,  and  is  faded  and  gone, 
And  to-day  it  lies  trodden  deep  under  men's  feet. 
Its  color  unnatural,  its  odor  uusweet. 

Close  by  the  violet,  as  if  under  its  care, 
Grew  a  little  white  jonquil,  unconscious  of  fear; 
Its  hue  was  perfect  as  the  leaf  of  the  rose, 
And  its  delicate  odor  was  s weet  to  the  nose. 

A  twig  struck  the  violet  on 3  night  in  a  storm, 
Parched  and  dry— the  night  w.is  so  warm  — 
And  th^  sw^et  little  j  >nq_uil,  s  >  p  ird  fr  mi  it*  birth, 
Was  jarred  by  the  twig,  and  fell  to  the  eirth. 

So  the  poor  little  violet,  and  the  bud  by  its  side, 
Fell  deep  in  the  slums  together  and  died; 
And  the  old  earthen  jar  sits  empty  to-day, 
The  violet  and  jonquil  are  strewn  by  the  way. 


THE  PAST. 

As  I  turn  and  listen  to  the  Past 
I  hear  the  echo  sweet  and  low 

Of  some  dear  voice,  floating  still 
Iu  the  festive  halls  of  long  ago, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  parting  scenes, 
Familiar  in  the  days  gone  by; 

The  happy  face,  the  winning  smile, 
The  mem'ry  of  some  pensive  eye. 


POP:  MS. 


TO  MISS  MATTIE  SUE . 

As  the  s?immer  sunbeams 
Peep  o'er  the  distant  hills 

On  some  sweet  ana  lonely  brook, 
So  my  weary,  longing  eyes, 
Warm  with  the  dew  of  love, 

To  thee  alonf  do  look. 

On  thy  rose-bud  cheeks 
Girlhood's  sweetest  smiles 

In  brightest  hope  do  beam, 
And  thy  lovely  azure  eyes 
Endear  my  only  hope 

And  fondest  day-dream. 

Of  thy  plaintive  voice 
I  hear  an  echo  sweet 

Sinking  deep  into  my  heart, 
And  that  peaceful  echo 
Bears  the  enchanting  bliss 

Which  death  alone  can  part. 


THE  DECEIVER 

He  who  lays  his  body  dowTny 
Hopeless  for  eternity — 

An  unbeliever — 
Will  sooner  find  a  place  of  rest 
Beyond  this  vale  of  tears, 

Than  the  DECEIVER. 


P  O  E  MS.  S7 

1  LOVE  THY  SHADES. 

Sweet  Solitude — I  love  to  spend  each  quiet  hour 
In  the  lone  shades  of  thy  sweet  bower 

Beside  yon  rill, 

And  ga/ing,  with  a  blessed  regard 
On  Nature,  I  commune  with  God, 

And  learn  His  will. 

I  love  thy  shades — 'tis  there  alone  I  learn 
MYSELF — the  faintest  sparks  that  in  me  burn 

Are  kindled  by  thee; 
In  life's  dark  cell  where  sunlight  fades 
I  gather  hope  from  thy  sweet  shades — 

My  soul's  set  free. 


TO  A  VAIN  MORTAL. 

Vain  mortal  of  a  common  clay 
From  many  sins  you  may  be  free, 

But  that  which  holds  the  greatest  sway 
Within  your  life — is  vanity. 

Some  little  deed  you  may  have  done, 
Or  perhaps  some  simple  word  or  hint 

Has  placed  your  common  name  upon 
Some  written  page,  or  in  public  print. 

80,  proud  you  stand  with  lifted  cane, 
Like  a  wood-cock  on  a  cypress  log — 

The  deed  that  has  made  you  vain  could  have 
Been  performed  by  a  shepherd  dog. 


jig  POEMS. 


MY  LASSIE  AND  I. 

I  love  the  winding  path  that  lead*  beside  the  old  familiar 

wood, 
Where   1    used  to  roam   with   a   country  lass  who  wore  an 

ancient  hood ; 

Who  UMd  to  take  my  little  hand  within  her  own  with  care, 
And  lead  me  thro'  the  meadow  hay,  sp(  aking  words  of  cheer. 

My  youthful  life  had  almost  passed  that  sweet  and  happy 

stage 
\Ylureihe  heart  is  free  fr<  m  trouble  and  fcrgetful  of  old 

age— 
fSweet  viok  ts  bleeni'd  beside  that  path,  but  none  was  half  so 

fair 
As  in y  little  la?s  with  ro*y  cheeks  and  downy  auburn  hair. 

At  evening  twilight  oft  we'd  sit  and  hold  each  other's  hand, 
And  s-juafc  of  love  l.ut  that  stiange  term  I  could  not  under 
stand. 

For  I  was  young,  as  T  have  said,  and  she  extremely  fair — 
Both  acted  like  summer  dovis— a  quite  familiar  pair. 

Oft  while  the  mocr.1  cam's  silvery  jays  played 'round  our 

careless  feet 

]7d  turn  and  kiss  my  lassie's  lips  so  gentle  and  so  sweet— 
To  kiss  that  lassie,  I'll  confess,  'twas  then  I  did  not  loath, 
For  I  was  young  and  she  was  fair,  so  please  excuse  us  both. 

A  thousand  glances   I  have  caught  frc  in  that  sweet  lassie's 

eyes, 
And  half  as  many  times  we've  kissed   beneath  the  star-lit 

skies; 

But  now  her  glances  are  not  mine,  for  she  is  far  away 
Kissing  other  lips  than  these,  in  some  sweeter  meadow's  hayr. 


POKM.8. 

THE  GRAVE  WHERE  A  WOMAN  LIES. 

I  stood  alone  at  the  close  of  day 

As  the  sunbeam's  s-ot't  and  goldtn  rays 

Lit  up  the  eastern  skies, 
On  a  h  IK  ly  hill  by  a  grassy  mound 
Long  neglected  and  forgotten — 

The  grave  where  a  woman  lies. 
A  woman  once  sought  in  early  years 
For  the  charms  of  her  matchless  face, 

Daik  hair  and  sparkling  eyes; 
On  whose  fair  cheeks  was  the  n  sy  tint 
Of  youth — like  the  rainbow's  placid  hues 

Bright'ning  the  eastern  skies. 
The  peaceful  rays  of  the  summer  sun 
Shone  softly  'round  her  lonely  bed 

On  each  sad  close  of  day — 
They  seem'd  to  glow  in  grander  beams 
Than  those  on  the  shining  marble 

Where  purer  ashes  lay. 
A  lesson  of  love  those  sun  beams  taught, 
Of  love  impartial,  just  and  true, 

From  the  Lamb  of  Calvary, 
Who,  when  called  upon  to  act  as  judge 
Of  a  woman  whom  the  world  condemn'd, 

Said,  "Nay,  I'll  not  condemn  thee." 
Would  that  these  lips  that  ne'er  had  spoken 
To  slander  that  once  most  perfect  name, 

Could  call  her  back  again, 
And  placing  the  hand  of  love  in  her'a 
I'd  learn  how  freely  Christ  forgives 

And  cleanses  the  deepest  stain. 


90  POEMS. 

BESIDE  LIFE'S  OCEAN. 

As  I  stand  beside  life's  ocean, 
While  the  moments  pass  away, 

I  can  feel  my  weary  feet 
Sinking  in  the  miry  clay. 

As  I  gaze  upon  its  billows, 

Dashing,  foaming  as  they  roll, 

I  can  almost  feel  them  surging 
O'er  my  very  inmost  soul. 

Lone  and  weary  I  am  standing, 
Drenched  by  ev'ry  troubled  wave, 

Waiting  to  be  dashed  forever 
In  the  cold  and  silent  grave. 

Ev'ry  billow  has  its  sorrow, 
And  its  flow  of  briny  tears, 

Which  were  gather'd  from  my  cradle 
To  my  life's  meridian  years. 

Tho'  I  stand  alone,  rejected, 
On  its  shore,  and  cast  aside, 

Yet  my  hope  shall  find  a  haven 
Beyond  its  dark  and  gloomy  tide. 


'TIS  BETTER  IT  WAS  SILENT. 

'Tis  better  this  hand  was  silent, 
This  mind  obscure  and  weak, 

Than  it  should  pen  a  single  line 
These  lips  would  dare  not  speak. 


P  0  E  MS.  91 


A  TREK  OF  VARIED  FRUITS  AND  BUDS. 

(On  meeting  a  very  handsome  lady  whom  the  author  once  knew  and 
loved  in  early  years,  but  at  this  meeting  she  was  accompanied  by  two 
beautiful  black-eyed  girls,  about  three  and  five  summers,  respectively — 
her  own  buds.) 

This  life's  a  tree;  we  sit  beneath  its  branches, 
And  view  the  tiowers  and  fruits  we  still  would  gather; 

Fruits  of  varied  seasons,  and  of  purest  kind, 
Flowers  that  have  bloomed  sweetest  in  wintry  weather, 

Upon  each  branch  there  are  many  opening  buds 

Of  every  hue  to  please  the  human  mind, 
The  luscious  fruit  of  a  score  or  more  of  years 

We  view  beside  those  buds  till  we  are  blind. 

Alas!  how  strange  that  we  should  thus  behold 
The  fruit  we've  loved  in  other  sunny  years 

Still  fair  and  beautiful,  and  nursing  many  buds, 
Some  for  joy  and  some  for  bitter  tears. 

But  yesterday,  'twas  mine  to  view  two  tender  buds 
On  this  sad  tree,  on  which  I'm  loath  to  dwell; 

They  were  blooming  beside  a  pure  and  early  fruit 
Which  I  fain  would  have  plucked — I  loved  it  so  well. 


WHERE  VANITY  PUFFS  THE  HEART. 

True  love  will  die  in  palace  halls 
Where  vanity  puffs  the  heart, 

Twas  only  made  for  nature's  walks — 
Her  paradise  of  art. 


P  O  E  M  S 


CONCEITED. 

Fair  lady,  your  remarks  have  caused  me  to  believe 
Your  heart  is  all  vanity,  and  beats  to  deceive; 
But  for  the  sympathy  I  cherish  for  you, 
I'll  merely  inform  you,  those  remarks  are  untrue. 

Far  be  it  from  me,  fair  one,  to  intrude, 
Or  act  toward  you  "to;)  for  war  .1  an  1  ru  ij"  — 
Tho'  your  face  has  for  me  a  beauty  untold, 
Yet  I'm  not  anxious  that  face  to  behold. 

Fair  one,  your  acquaintance  has  never  been  sought 
By  me — not  in  action,  or  even  in  thought, 
So  if  ever  those  slaii(i:rous  words  you  repeat, 
Let  it  be  at  your  home,  and  not  on  the  street. 


THE  FIRST  RAY  OF  HOPE. 

How  sweet  is  the  first  bright  ray  of  hope 
When  youth's  sweet  bloom  is  on  the  cheeks, 

And  there's  music  in  the  breeze, 
And  the  violet  blooms  beside  the  wood. 
And  the  lily  waves  beneath  the  bay, 

And  the  budding  heart's  at  ease. 


INGRATITUDE. 

INGRATITUDE,  ah,  I  hate  it, 
I'm  loath  for  a  moment  to  dwell 

On  a  word  whose  only  meaning 
Originated  in  hell. 


P  O  E  M  8  .  93 

THE  COMING  BAUD. 

When  your  life-song  shall  have  ended, 
And  with  grief  its  echo's  blended 

O'er  your  lone  head; 
Then  will  some  plaintive  notes  res  >und 
O'er  this  cold,  unhallow'd  ground, 
Your  final  bed. 

Home  sweet  bard  shall  then  arise 
And  float  his  muse  unto  the  skies, 

While  angels  sing 
The  anthem  of  a  purer  soul 
Than  yours,  whose  sentiments  unroll 

No  sacred  thing. 

On  ev'ry  hill-top  far  and  near 

He'll  sing  that  sinful  hearts  might  hear 

His  sweet  refrain ; 
All  men  will  bow  before  his  face, 
Whose  winning  smiles  and  perfect  grace 

Dispel  all  pain. 


AUTUMN. 

The  lilies  and  violets  have  faded  and  gone, 
The  hills  and  the  meadows  are  drear  and  lone, 

The  leaves  are  falling, 
Filling  our  pathway  sure  and  fast, 
Telling  our  souls,  they'll  soon  be  cast 

Beyond  recalling. 


H4  P  O  E  M  S  . 

THE  PAST— TURN  THE  PAGE! 

Turn  the  page! — for  grief  and  disappointment 
Oil  its  once  smooth  surface 

Now  appears; 

On  its  margin  are  fingerprints 
Made  dingy  by  the  bitter  drops 

Of  many  tears. 

TEAKS— that  dew  on  which  I  would  not  dwell, 
So  strange  their  inward  meaning — 

So  very  deep ; 

T  would  not  dwell  upon  them  now, 
Yet  o'er  this  page  I  still  must  bend, 

And  still  must  weep. 

Turn  the  page!— for  between  each  written  line 

Remorse,  in  crimson  doth  appear 

In  brilliant  rays; 

Remorse— for  'mid  life's  changing  scenes 

My  life  was  spent— I  dare  not  tell- 
In  many  ways-. 


ON  TO  ETERNITY. 

As  I  look  around  me  I  see  moving 
Slowly  and  unconsciously 
Thousands  of  immortal  souls- 

On  to  eternity; 

The  youthful,  the  gay  and  beautiful 
Form  an  innumerable  caravan, 
Keeping  step  by  the  drum-beat 
Of  inexorable  Time. 


POEMS. 

FROM  TUP:  PALACE  TO  THK  WOODLAND. 

'Tis  plensant  to  descend  from  lofty  heights 
And  view  this  world  as  a  little  child; 

To  leave  the  stately  palace  walls 

And  roam  within  the  woodland  wild. 

To  gather  sweet  violets  here  and  there, 
And  view  the  cows  go  sauntering  down 

To  quench  their  thirst  at  a  sparkling  stream  — 
Away  from  the  busy,  noisy  town. 

To  recline  upon  a  grassy  mound 
Beside  some  pure  and  quiet  hr,>ok, 

And  gather  wisdom,  comfort,  peace, 
From  the  pages  of  some  sacred  book. 

To  feel  that  you  are  only  mortal, 

A  little  worm  of  common  clay, 
Helpless — waiting,  hoping,  trusting, 

For  a  home  of  brighter  day. 

To  lay  aside  all  sinful  passions 

That  have  made  life's  journey  hard; 

To  gaze  into  the  open  heavens 

And  find  communion  with  your  God. 


THK  DUDE. 

Young  man,  of  your  worth  you  never  can  boast, 
To  society  TRUE  you  are  virtually  dead, 

Because  you  have  played  the  dude  so  long, 
With  but  little  heart  and  an  empty  head. 


P  O  E  M  S . 
THE  LOVER'S  RETURN  ON  A  BICYCLE. 

ADMITTED,   BUT   NOT  ACCEPTED. 

Away  down  'neath  the  Southern  pine 
Where  the  jessamine  and  the  ivy  twine, 

And  violets  bloom; 

Where  no  fierce  winds,  cold  and  bleak, 
Touch  the  maiden's  blushing  cheek, 

And  there's  no  gloom. 

A  dove-like  form  was  seen  to  float — 
Like  the  white  sail  of  some  tiny  boat — 

Adown  the  hill  ; 

Nearer  and  nearer  drew  the  form, 
Like  a  dove  in  a  summer  storm, 
Tossed  at  will. 

A  maiden  fair  soon  came  in  sight 

With  cheeks  aglow  and  countenance  bright, 

And  slender  form  ; 

Her  white  hands  held  the  handle  bars, 
Her  eyes  were  like  two  lovely  stars — 

Cheeks  bright  and  warm. 

Adown  a  steep  incline  she  sped, 
The  golden  tresses  on  her  head 

Fanning  the  breeze  ; 
Heedless  of  the  danger  near, 
Her  youthful  heart  knew  no  fear — 

Beneath  the  trees. 

Her  charming  steel-horse  could  not  mis» 
A  steep  and  dangerous  precipice 


P  O  E  M  S .  97 

By  the  river's  bank; 
Along  she  flew — a  fearful  sight — 
Like  a  bird  wounded  in  its  flight 

She  downward  sank. 

Many  an  anxious  eye  drew  near, 
And  gazing  with  a  sense  of  fear, 

Locked  here  and  there; 
No  wounded  form  could  there  be  found, 
Nor  trace  of  blood  seen  on  the  ground, 

Of  the  maiden  fair. 

For  safe  below  the  rough  incline 

She  passed  beneath  the  Southern  pine — 

Her  charming  wheel 
Never  faltering,  stood  it  all, 
Thus  saving  her  from  a  fatal  fall 

By  its  perfect  steel. 

Away  beyond  she  swiftly  flew 

Thro7  grasses  wet  with  summer's  dew, 

O'er  turf  and  stone, 
Toward  a  dreary  cottage-door, 
Whose  moss  bespoke  of  inmates  poor, 

And  very  lone. 

Soon  she  reached  this  home  of  gloom, 
Alighted  near  its  western  room — 

Sat  down  to  rest 

On  an  ancient  settee,  roughly  made, 
Within  the  live-oak's  gentle  shade, 

And  soothed  her  breast. 


98  POEMS. 

There  in  the  cool  and  balmy  breeze 
That  wafted  sweetness  from  the  trees 

On  hills  afar. 

She  sat  alone,  like  an  angel  fair, 
Thinking  of  him,  her  fondest  care, 

And  constant  star. 

Toward  the  house  she  calmly  stroll'd, 
As  if  no  one  should  her  behold 

Seeking  those  walls  ; 
While  gently  tapping  on  the  door 
Footstep*  were  heard  upon  the  floor 

Within  its  halls. 

Familiar  were  those  footsteps  too, 
Whose  sound  to  her  had"  music  true- 
Sweet  and  sublime  ; 
Confusion  seem'd  to  swell  each  hall, 
As  if  no  visitors  called  at  all  — 
At  any  time. 

But  soon  the  ancient  cottage  door 
With  rusty  hinges,  scraped  the  floor, 

And  opened  wide  ; 
Before  her  fair  face  bending  low 
Stood  a  wreck  of  that  most  bitter  flow— 

Affection's  tide. 

For  on  this  strangely  ebbing  tide 
Many  a  hope  sublime  hath  died 

In  the  human  breast; 
A  "moving  tomb-stone,"  cold,  defaced, 
Is  all  that  shows  where  love  was  placed 

For  e'er  to  rest. 


P  O  E  M  S  . 

Affection  !  ah,  that  transient  thing 
From  which  life's  lasting  troubles  spring, 

By  love  is  taught 
First  to  adore,  and  then  to  spurn, 
Causing  the  human  heart  to  burn 

With  bitter  thought. 
Love  is  its  mother — 'tis  her  son, 
Whose  warmth  is  like  the  rays  of  sun, 

Fading,  dying  ; 
A  season  of  but  fleeting  bliss, 
A  dream  of  one  eternal  kiss — 

Hope  belieing. 

While  standing  nigh  his  bended  form 
She  whisptr'd  words  of  friendship  warm, 

But  all  in  vain  ; 

She  press'd  his  cold  hand  to  her  cheek 
So  warm  and  pure — he  could  not  speak. 

So  deep  the  pain. 

There's  always  pain  in  meeting  one 
Who  was  once  the  lovely  rising  sun, 

Within  your  heart; 
In  ev'ry  look  and  ev'ry  word 
There's  a  glance  retain'd,  an  echo  heard 

You  cannot  part. 

While  gazing  on  her  lovely  face, 

He  admired  her  gentle,  winning  grace, 

So  sweet  and  pure; 
And  wonder'd  how  her  angel-hand 
Could  e'er  have  broken  love's  sacred  band 

Once  firm  and  sure. 


100  P  O  E  M  S 

With  cheeks  aglow  and  glances  warm, 
As  sunbeams  when  the  summer  storm 

Had  passed  away, 

She  looked  on  him,  for  she  had  learn'd 
To  love  the  heart  she  oft  had  spurn'd 

Each  fleeting  day. 

While  gazing  on  her  face  so  sweet, 
He  invited  her  to  take  a  seat 

Within  the  hall  ; 
Seating  himself  beside  her  there 
He  thought  it  n  uight  but  just  and  fair 

To  tell  her  all :— 

"I  loved  you  once,  oh,  pretty  one, 
You  were  to  ms  the  rising  sun 

Of  perfect  bliss  ; 

My  hope  was  built  on  nothing  more 
Than  YOUKS,  whose  beam  I  did  adore, 

And  loved  its  kiss." 

"That  love  was  true,  you  knew  full  well, 
Truer  than  human  lips  could  tell — 

I  loved  your  name; 
To  your  sweet  life  [  did  impart 
My  hope,  rny  all,  my  very  heart, 

My  life,  my  fainj." 

"While  you  were  nigh  my  path  was  peace, 
My  joy  and  bliss  seem'd  ne'er  to  cease- 
Sweet  rest  was  mine  ; 
My  hope  was  like  tha  sunbeam's  ray, 
My  life  like  an  unclouded  day, 
Of  purest  sunshine." 


POEMS.  101 

"Your  smiles  to  me  were  softer  far 
Than  the  silvery  light  of  the  purest  star 

In  heaven's  skies; 

You  were  my  ALL,  my  guiding  light, 
Whose  glances  were  my  chief  delight, 

From  holy  eyes." 

"But  since  that  peace  for  which  I  sighed 
Has  passed  away  with  hope  and  died 

A  death  of  pain  ; 

Words  now  from  you  tend  m:)re  to  break 
This  heart  you  never  can  awake — 

Never  again." 

"My  heart  is  on  an  unknown  sea, 
Far  from  the  love  you  bore  for  me— 

My  first  and  last; 
Love's  gentle  tide  has  ebb3d  away, 
Life  has  no  boon  for  me  to-day, 

Its  summer's  past." 

'Tis  strange  the  human  heart  should  learn 
To  loath  the  love  that  would  return 

And  seek  its  breast; 
And  stranger  'tis  that  love  should  seek 
Acceptance  in  that  bos.mi  weak 

It  robbed  of  rest. 

As  she  thought  of  his  youthful  heart  so  lone, 
She  womler'd  if  it  was  like  stone, 

80  very  cold ;  . 

She  laid  her  warm  hand  on  his  cheek, 
He  gazed  on  her;  but  could  not  speak — 

All  had  been  told. 


102  POEMS. 

She  simply  said,  "Forgive  me,  dear? 
Let  all  your  sorrows,  ev'ry  care, 

By  ME  be  borne  ; 

Ne'er  again  in  this  weak  heart  of  mine 
Will  my  fond  feelings  for  you  decline 

On  love's  sweet  throne. 

"I  know  that  I've  been  in  the  wrong, 
And  treated  you  unkind  too  long, 

These  many  years  ; 
Jn  your  past  love  I'll  firmly  trust, 
That  love  to  me  was  ne'er  unjust, 

Or  caused  me  tears." 

His  weary  hand  she  gently  raised, 
And  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  she  praised 

His  love  again  ; 

She  lingered  with  a  painful  smile, 
Hoping  his  heart  would  all  the  while 

Be  free  from  pain. 

He  thanked  her,  bowed  his  head  and  wept 
O'er  the  love  that  had  in  her  bosom  slept 

Many  a  year. 

Those  tears  to  her  were  strange  she  knew  ; 
Naught  else  than  love's  eternal  dew 

Embalm'd  in  care. 

Away  from  this  lore  cottage  door 
She  tried  to  pass,  but  felt  the  more 

Like  ling7 1 ing  there  ; 
The  thought  that  she  fore'er  must  part 


POEMS.  108 


From  him  her  life,  her  very  heart, 
She  could  not  bear. 

Fresh  from  the  bosom  of  her  grief 
Came  bitter  tears,  but  no  relief 

From  her  sad  night; 
She  slowly  passed  from  this  lone  door, 
Mounted  her  wheel — to  return  no  m  >re- 

And  took  her  flight. 


HOW  DEEP  THE  MYSTERY! 

If  I  should  ask  this  silver  coin 
That  lies  within  my  hand  to-day, 

"Tell  me  thy  history?" 
And  it  should  speak;  alas!  how  strange, 
Would  each  sad  word  sound  in  my  ear — 

How  deep  the  mystery ! 
***** 

Would  it  not  tell  the  sick'ning  truth 
Of  some  fair  one  in  the  bloom  of  youth 

Whom  it  had  led  astray  ? 
How  it  partly  paid  for  the  shining  band 
That  bought  sweet  virtue  fr»>m  the  hand 

Now  silent  'neath  the  clay. 


Though  a  stranger,  I  loved  thee, 
Thou  wert  near  to  my  heart — 

I  fain  would  have  met  thee, 
But  I  knew  we  must  part. 


104  POEMS. 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  CONGAREE. 

Many  a  blissful  hour  I've  spent 
'Mid  the  shade  of  the  willow  tree, 

Watching  the  smoothly  flowing  waters 
Of.  the  beautiful  Congaree. 

Many  a  Sabbath  hour  I've  sat 
With  little  Maud  beside  my  knee, 

Gazing  o'er  the  distant  hills 
On  the  banks  of  the  Congaree. 

Many  a  happy  smile  I've  seen 

On  her  sweet  face,  so  pure  and  free, 

While  sitting  in  the  willow's  shade 
On  the  banks  of  the  Congaree. 

Many  a  balmy  kiss  I've  stolen 
.      From  precious  lips,  too  pure  for  me, 
While  qaressing  lovely  little  Maud 
On  the  banks  of  the  Congaree. 

Many  a  charming  glance  I've  seen 

I  nevermore  will  see, 
While  silting  beside  my  gentle  Maud 

On  the  banks  of  the  Congaree, 

But  now  those  blissful  days  are  gone, 
The  willow  only  stands  to  tell 

Of  the  pleasant  hours  I  once  enjoyM 
With  little  Maud  I  loved  so  well. 

For  she  in  youth  and  beauty  died, 
And  I  shall  see  her  face  no  more; 

She  sits  by  a  lovelier  river,  'neath 
Some  shady  palm  on  the  other  shore. 


ON  THK  BANKS  OF  THE  CONGABEE. 

Hut  now  those  blissful  (lays  are  gone. 
The  willow  only  stands  to  tell 

Of  the  pleasant  hours  I  once  enjoy'd 
With  little  Maud  I  loved  so  well. 


POEMS.  107 

THE  CAUSE  OF  ANOTHER'S  WOE. 

I  had  rather  live  a  pauper's  life, 
My  name  be  unrevered. 

And  when  T  die  hellward  go, 
Than  to  bear  the  consciousness  within  me 
That  I  in  this  life  had  been 

The  cause  of  another's  woe. 

What  a  sick'ning  pang  that  heart  must  feel 
That  knows  itself  a  robber 

Of  some  pure  and  virtuous  name; 
Earth's  softest  water  ne'er  can  cleanse 
Its  stain— nor  Lethe's  sparkling  stream 

The  inem'rv  of  its  shame. 


A  LOVELY  WOMAN'S  GLANCE. 

Long  mayest  thou  gaze  upon  the  stars 
That  twinkle  in  yon  azure  skies, 

But  linger  not,  oh,  passionate  man, 
Thy  gaze  in  a  lovely  woman's  eyes! 

An  army  often  thousand  foes 
Is  easier  subdued  in  their  advance 

Than  the  dangerous  feeling  often  borne 
By  a  lovely  woman's  melting  glance. 


The  heart  that's  quick  to  love  when  young 
Will  soon  grow  cold  when  youth  is  past, 

For  'mid  life's  many  sterner  scenes 
And  troubled  dreams,  love  cannot  last. 


108  P  0'Efk  B 

COLD  IN  DEATH. 

(On  the  death  of  a  bright  young  lady,  a  student  of  the  Winthrop  Nor 
mal  College,  who  came  to  her  death  not  long  since  in  this  city  by  being 
run  over  by  an  electric  car.) 

Cross  her  hands  upon  her  bosom, 
Smooth  back  her  locks  of  silken  hair; 

Gently  fold  the  shroud  around  her, 
Tho'  cold  in  death  she's  no  less  fair. 

Lay  your  hand  upon  her  forehead, 

Sweetly  she  is  resting  now  ; 
Touch  those  eyelids,  closed  to  sorrow, 

While  sweet  peace  pervades  her  brow. 

Kiss  the  lips  that  bore  no  evil, 

As  pure  as  lilies  on  the  lawn  ; 
Kiss  the  cliBeks  that  blossom'd  sweetly 

On  each  lovely  zephyr  morn. 

Kiss  the  hands  that  moved  in  friendship, 

Stain  them  with  a  tear  of  joy; 
Ask  that  yours — hands  less  weak — 

May  some  loving  deeds  employ. 

Kiss  the  hair  that  waved  in  beauty, 
Like  hyacinths  of  sweet  perfume; 

Place  the  white  rose  on  her  bos  >m, 
Soon  she'll  lie  in  the  silent  toinli. 


'Tis  strange  that  you  will  always  find 
In  the  poorest  spot  the  brightest  pearls, 

So  a  poverty -stricke n 'd  land  is  good 
For  naught  but  raising  pretty  girls. 


P  O  E  M  S  .  10» 

TO  HELP:N, 

(The  following  p  >em  pleased  H^len  very  much,  and  it  is  with  her  con 
sent  I  publish  it.) 

May  you  pass  o'er  the  sea  of  life  like  a  bubble, 
And  ne'er  reach  the  rn  mth  of  the  river  of  trouble, 
And  from  the  dark  clouds  that  eternally  roll, 
May  some  sweet  haven  shelter  your  soul. 

If  e'er  in  the  midst  of  a  season  of  bliss 
Your  dear  lips  burn  for  a  passionate  kiss, 
Think  of  me  then,  though  I  distantly  roam, 
And  reserve  me  the  right  till  [  visit  your  home. 

May  the  joys  of  your  young  life  b3  without  measure, 
And  not  always  kindled  in  the  halls  of  pleasure — 
Tho'  the  mem'ry  of  pleasure  seems  ever  s)  dear, 
After  all  'tis  but  sorrow,  and  the  source  of  a  tear. 

When  o'er  the  gay  floor  of  the  ball-room  you  trip, 
And  champagne  and  wine  you  carelessly  sip, 
Remember,  fair  Helen,  it  is  after  the  ball 
That  you  dream  of  the  moments  you  would  not  recall, 

80,  now  fond  Helen,  as  I  bid  you  adieu, 

I  trust  your  sorrows  of  life  will  be  few, 

And  you'll  return  unto  ni3,  Iik3  some  sweet  dove, 

And  nestle  once  m  >re  on  this  bosom  of  love. 


The  fairest  flower  has  its  flaw, 
The  greenest  leaf  its  yellow  vein, 

The  brightest  eye  its  faded  beam, 
The  purest  heart  a  crimson  stain. 


no  POEMS. 

EULA  AND  EUNITA,  THE  TWO  ORPHANS. 

They  grew  up  side  by  side  in  a  cottage  by  the  sea, 
Where  the  ivy  and  the  myrtle  entwined  the  cypress  tree  ; 
Where  the  odor  of  sweet  roses  perfumed  the  stilly  air, 
And  the  hyacinth  and  lily  bloomed  tenderly  and  fair. 

They  played  around  the  self-same  hearth,  and  'round  the 

loving  knee 

Of  a  fond  and  happy  mother,  now  sleeping  by  the  sea — 
Enla  was  as  handsome  a  girl  as  ever  strolled  beneath 
The  stately  cypress  or  (be  elm  'round  her  native  heath. 

Her  cheeks  wi  re  of  that  velvet  hue  that  charms  the  passing 

pyd 

Her  glances  like  the  silvery  light  of  heaven's  star-lit  sky; 
Her  golden  locks  were  chaiming — like  a  rcrown  of  purest 

gold— 
Around  her  snowy  neck  they  waved  in  an  exquisite  fold. 

Both  were  bless'd  with  wealth  in  girlhood's  early  years, 
They'd  felt  no  disappointment,  vicissitudes  or  cares  ; 
They  mingled  with  the  throng  of  the  high-toned  and  the 

gay, 
To  their  intellect  and  beauty  men  did  homage  pay. 

Kunita  wore  a  darker  shade  of  that  exquisite  hair 
r\  hat  pleases  ev'ry  eye  that  longs  for  the  beautiful  and  fair; 
Her  eyes  were  orbs  of  beauty,  dark  and  crystal  clear — 
They  never  felt  but  once  of  pain  and  sorrow's  bitter  tear. 

Her  fare  was  grandly  formed,  with  cheeks  of  richest  hue, 
Which  bore  a  gentle  smile  that  told  of  a  disposition  true; 
A  pleasant  and  sweet  nature  in  her  could  e'er  be  found — 
She  loved    the  ties  of  friendship,  they  'rapt'd  her  bosom 
'round. 


POEM  8.  Ill 


In  them  were  found  that,  noble  heart  that  loved  the  rich  and 

poor— 

The  latter  always  found  a  home  within  their  open'd  door — 
The  flowers   that   bloomed  beside  those  walls  were  never 

half  so  fair 
As  the  fragrant  buds  that  bloom'd  within  so  tenderly  and 

rare. 

Their  father,  ere  the  last  sweet  bud  had  e'en  begun  to  bloom, 
Was  borne  away  to  a  grassy  hill  to  moulder  in  the  tomb  ; 
Beside   that   mound   an  angel-form   has  since  baen  laid  to 

rest — 
Their  mother — oh,  what  grief  must  then   have  swell'd  each 

loving  breast. 

Alone  in  this  changing  world,  with  not  a  single  tie 

To  bind   them  here,  save  the  friends  they  held  extremely 

nigh- 
No  relatives  to  call  their  own,  save  a  distant  one 
Who  lived  away  beyond  their  shore,  'neath  the  Western  sun. 

Time!  on  whose  relentless  wings  life's  joys  are  often  borne, 
Soon  bore  all  their  wealth  away,  leaving  them  here  to  mourn ; 
Here  they  lived  awhile,  but  life  became  so  lone  and  drear, 
They  moved  away,  and  rented  out  the  home  they  loved  so 
dear. 

Oft  Eula's  hand  was  sought  in  love,  but  that,  alas!  in  vain; 
Tho'  many  worshipped  at  her  shrine,  her  hand  they  could 

not  gain, 

For  'round  her  heart  in  other  days  a  pleasant  tie  did  form 
For  one  whose  love  was  ever  thus:  constant  and  warm. 

By  his  honest  heart  she  was  beloved,  this  she  knew  full  well, 
But  in  her  hardly  suited  heart  no  love  for  him  did  dwell  ; 
To  her  he  was  but  a  faithful  friend  on  whom  she  could  rely; 
'If  f  marry  him,1'  she  often  said,  "I  may  love  him  by-and-by." 


POEMS. 


They  were  wedded  on  a  balmy  eve  in  the  gentle  month  of 

May, 
And  passed  from  a  distant  cottage  door — she  beautiful  and 

gay— 

Now  Eula  and  Eunita  are  as  sad  as  girls  can  be, 

For  they  are  Jiving  all  alone  in  that  cottage  by  the  sea. 


A  DIFFERENT  TIDE. 

(Written  in  a  very  handsome  young  lady's  album  the  night  before  her 
marriage,  at  the  hour  of  twelve.) 

Soon  upon  life's  fitful  ocean 
You  shall  meet  a  different  tide, 

And  your  loving  bark  be  drifting 
To  perhaps  a  brighter  side. 

Soon  the  past  will  be  forgotten, 
Its  hours  absorbed  in  present  bliss ; 

But  can  your  loving  heart  forget 
The  rapture  of  this  parting  kiss. 

Some  day  within  your  memory 
Some  sweet  thought  of  me  may  glide, 

Of  pleasant  hours  spent  together 
Ere  you  became  another's  bride. 


TO  MARIAN. 

Thou  art  to  me  like  the  memory  of  a  green  hill 
Far  away,  where  violets  bloom  here  and  there — 

I  love  that  hill,  'tis  there  I  used  to  roam 
Kre  I  had  felt  or  even  dreamed  of  care. 


POEMH. 


MY  OWN  WORLD. 

My  life's  a  world — within  my  immortal  soul 
There's  a  boundless  realm 

No  other  being  can  control ; 
None  can  hear,  think,  or  feel  for  me, 
Be  what  I  have  been — and  shall  be. 

In  that  strange  wr-rld  I  may  have  oft  found  rest, 
And  at  times  enjoyed 

Seasons  of  joy  and  happiness; 
But  if  any,  alas!  they  have  been  few, 
And  transient  as  the  dicpsof  morning  dew. 

And  I  have  been  the  slave  of  those  creations 
More  difficult  to  subdue 

Than  all  earth's  most  hostile  nations  :— 
Passion,  pride,  lust— these  Nature  has  secured 
In  this  weak  bosom,  and  must  ever  be  endured. 

I'm  on  the  throne  of  Time  and  Eternity, 
My  strange  courtiers  are 

Sorrow,  hope,  ambition— all  unfit 
To  minister  unto  the  sovereign  will  of  one 
Whose  life-star  is  as  unchangeable  as  the  sun. 

Around  that  throne,  in  darkness  and  in  light, 
I  can  always  behold 

The  being  whom  I  once  loved,  still  bright 
And  sparkling  in  the  zenith  of  her  pride, 
Loving  and  being  loved— a  gentle  bride. 


114  POEMS. 


Though  in  the  tomb,  neglected  I  shall  lie, 
And  even  forgotten 

By  those  who  once  esteemed  me  high, 
Yet  that  world  of  influence  naught  can  dissever, 
It  must  weary  all  ages  and  live  on  forever. 


THOU  OLD  HYPOCRITE. 

Oh,  thou  old  gray-haired  deceiver, 
Thou  expounder  of  sacred  Writ, 

Dost  thou  not  know  that  God  in  Heaven 
Dispises  the  hypocrite  ? 

Thou  art  dead  to  ev'ry  honest  thought, 
And  soon  shall  thy  days  expire; 

Hell  will  be  thy  portion,  thy  reward- 
So  prepare  to  meet  its  fire. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

How  strangely  warm  is  woman's  love, 
'Tis  like  summer  to  the  wounded  dove; 
In  pain  and  sorrow  'tis  just  the  same 
As  on  the  dewy  morn  on  which  it  came. 

Yes,  woman's  love,  indeed,  is  sweet, 
Grows  stronger  when  cast  'neath  cruel  feet; 
'Twill  live  when  other  love  is  gone, 
And  comfort  on  the  saddest  morn. 


P  (>  E  M  S.  115 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Mother,  H  it  not  in  thy  sweet  name  I  live, 

And  gather  within  me  the  richest  joys  of  life? 

Would  not  hope,  love,  ambition,  all  he  nothing 
Without  thee,  and  my  days  be  hut  days  of  strife? 

Have  I  not  from  the  careless  years  of  infancy 
Till  now,  honor'd  and  adored  thy  precious  name? 

Would  not  this  weak  and  weary  heart  of  mine 
Endure  all  things  to  shelter  thee  from  blame  V 

Have  I  not  'mid  the  changing  scenes  of  life 
Bern  always  near  thee  to  love  thee  more  and  more? 

Have  in  t  these  hands  and  feet  grown  truly  strong 
In  lab  >r  for  thee — thou  one  whom  I  adore? 


ONE  WHO  WOULD  LINGER. 

'Tis  pleasant  to  he  in  a  crowd  of  girls, 
And  feel  there's  one  you  love  the  best; 

One  who  is  fair  and  sweet  and  kind, 
More  beautiful  than  all  the  rest. 

To  know  that  her  confidence  and  love 
Is  center'd  in  your  wayward  heart ; 

To  feel  that  you  have  one  who'd  linger 
Should  all  the  other  girls  depart. 


Oh,  jealous  heart  that  seeks  to  belittle  my  gentle  muse, 
And  1)1  ow  your  damnable  bugle  in  my  lonely  ears; 

You'll  lie  some  day  in  expressing  your  recognition 
Of  this  very  song  you  disowned  in  other  years. 


116  P  O  E  M  8 

PERHAPS. 

The  moon-lit  night  was  drear  and  lone, 
I  heard  a  noise  on  yonder  hill; 

A  human  form  came  rushing  by, 
Then  all  was  cairn  and  deathly  still. 

I  recognized  the  slender  form 
Passing  from  the  cedar  trees, 

Clad  in  white,  with  raven  hair 
Floating  in  the  zephyr  breeze. 

Her  white  hands  held  the  tissue  folds, 
Thro'  whose  lace  the  moonbeams  play'd 

Upon  her  bosom — once  so  fair — 
Where  no  wayward  hands  had  stray'd. 

Perhaps  the  pearly  gate  of  love 
And  character  was  thrown  ajar 

To  a  sinful  man — whose  deeds  the  like, 
His  character  doth  seldom  mar. 

The  white  rose  decked  her  raven  hair, 
But  it  had  lost  its  beauty  there; 

A  smile  adorned  her  face,  but  not 

Like  that  which  made  her  once  so  fair. 

A  glance  revealed  to  her  the  fact 
That  she  was  passing  very  nigh 

To  one  wTho  had  esteemed  her  pure, 
For  reasons  I  can  ne'er  deny. 

May  be  she'd  spied  some  erring  man 
Who  was  seeking  straw  to  make  his  bud  ; 

Or  had  heard  the  hoot  of  the  midnight-owl 
In  the  lonely  tree  limbs  o'er  her  head. 


POEMS.  117 

MORE  COSTLY  THAN  A   DIAMOND  RING. 

Oh,  character!  thou  ever  ait 

An  holy  and  an  honor'd  thing-; 
More  valuable  than  life  itself, 

More  costly  than  a  diamond  ring. 

On  thy  fair  finger,  lovely  maid, 

Let  there  no  jewel  ever  be 
If  character  be  put  at  stake 

For  the  gem  he  lias  given  thee. 

Praised  it  may  be  by  ev'ry  one 
Whose  eyes  may  look  upon  its  glow  ; 

But  if  by  happiness  it  be  bought, 
Each  spark  will  be  a  spark  of  woe. 

Many  a  glance  may  linger  there, 

In  admiration  of  the  gift; 
But,  ah,  no  heart  will  syrnpathiz3 

Or  from  thy  soul  the  burden  lift. 

As  oft  as  thou  wouldst  gaze  upon  it 
This  painful  lesson  thou  must  learn  : 

Earth's  brightest  jewel  has  its  woe 
If  PEACE  be  given  in  return. 


SOLITUDE. 

The  sweetest,  dearest  spot  on  earth, 
Where  Truth  alone  is  found, 

And  no  wayward  feet  intrude, 
Is  in  that  blessed  shadow 
Where  we  learn  what  we  have  been, 

And  shall  be— sweet  Solitude. 


IKS  POEMS. 


MEMORIAL  DAY  IN  COLUMBIA. 

(On  seeing  a  nunil,er  of  little  girls  clad  in  white  inarch  to  the  graves 
of  the  Confedeiate  dead  and  strew  flowers  thereon.) 

'Round  this  hallow'd  spot  where  lie 
The  brave,  the  true,  the  honor'd  dead, 

Let  youthful  hands  sweet  garlands  wreathe, 
And  strew  them  o'er  each  silent  head. 

Oh,  tender  hearts,  too  young  to  feel 
The  care  which  bore  a  soldier's  sigh  ; 

Gather  the  roses  and  strew  them  o'er 
These  graves  where  truth  and  honor  lie. 


MAN'S  LIFE. 

Man's  life  is  but  a  slender  chain 
Whose  cold  and  rusty  links 

Contain  the  deepest  mystery; 
Each  particle  may  have  its  worth. 
But  ne'er  will  it  be  known  to  earth 

In  the  pages  of  history. 

All  save  the  go<  d  he  may  have  dene 
In  those  changing  hours 

Since  child  hood  passed  awayr 
Lie  buried  in  the  mould'ring  folds 
Of  Oblivion's  cold  shroud — 

A  monument  of  clay. 


O  that  the  lilies  and  rcses  were  mine 
Instead  of  the  rak  and  ivy  of  life. 


POEMS.  119 

HOW  STRANGE  ARE  DREAMS! 

How  strange  are  dreams  ! — I  dream  3d  the  other  night 

A  dream  that  made  me  tremble, 

Not  with  fear,  but  it  kind  of  strange  reality  ; 
My  sapper,  though  late,  consisted  of  no  cheese, 

No  salmonds,  pies  or  wine  had  passed  these  lips. 

How  strange  are  dreams!— they  carry  us  far  away 

To  scenes  too  long  forgotten, 

Away  back  in  our  early  childhood  days, 
Picturing  our  lives  in  a  pure  and  simple  way, 

Not  as  they  were  spent,  nor  when  ;  but  where. 

How  strange  are  dreams! — they  have  their  boundless  world, 

With  trees,  hills  and  lakes, 

And  flowers  of  various  kinds  and  hues — 
Spirits  of  friends  and  loved  ones  long  departed 

And  perhaps  too  long  forgotten— they  are  there. 

How  strange  are  dreams! — If  death  be  like  a  dream — 

A  pure  and  happy  dream — 

How  blissful  and  sweet  must  be  our  final  end, 
To  emerge  from  a  sinful  world  to  find  ourselves 

In  dreams— dreaming  through  all  eternity. 


DISSIPATION. 
Of  all  the  sickening  feelings 
That  swell  the  human  breast, 

And  worry  the  imagination, 
None  are  so  painful  to  the  heart 
As  those  at  early  morn 

After  a  night  of  dissipation. 


120  POEMS. 

CARRIER'S  ADDRESS. 

(Written  for  THE  STATE,  Columbia,  S.  C.,  December  24th.  1898.) 
"A  merry  Christmas,  one  and  all!" 
Heed  the  carrier's  earnest  call — 
For  a  service  long  whet  will  you  do?— 
He  simply  asks  a  "gift"  of  you. 

By  daylight  damp,  and  e'en  before, 

He  has  thrown  the  news  before  your  door, 

And  rarely  has  he  e'er  been  late 

With  that  welcom'd  sheet,  "The  State. " 

"The  State,"  that  bears  the  honor'd  seal 
Of  truth  and  justice,  firm  as  steel; 
Whose  sentiments  of  truth  will  staml 
Till  justice  permeates  our  land. 

And  while  to-day  in  joy  and  mirth, 
You  gather  'round  the  family  heartbf 
Give  cheerfully,  and  let  it  be 
For  a  service  rendered  faithfully. 

LITTLE  ETHEL  W „ 

Sweet  Ethel's  years  are  only  six— 
She's  just  six  summers  old; 

But  mine  are  twenty-six  and  one 
Long  summers,  damp  and  cold. 

I  love  the  smiles  on  Ethel's  face, 

Alas!  they  are  not  few — 
To  me  her  azure  eyes  are  like 

Sweet  violets  filled  with  dew. 


(THIRD  VOLUME.) 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  PATRONS  THROUGHOUT 
THE  NORTH,  EAST,  AND  WEST. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


122  POEMS. 

THE  DEATH  OF  CHARLES  A.  DANA. 

In  all  the  firmament  of  the  journalistic  heavens, 

'Mid  the  many  twinkling  stars  of  less  resplendent  light 

That  scatter  their  silvery  baams  adown  its  mystic  line, 
The  grandest  literary  orb  that  ever  shed  its  rays 
O'er  the  green-clad  hills  of  this  beloved  land 

Has  withdrawn  its  face  from  earth — never  again  to  shine, 

Never  again  t  >  shine  in  all  its  full-orbed  glory, 
Bearing  peace  and  justice  alike  to  the  rich  and  poor, 

Bright'ning  the  darkest  caverns  of  the  human  mini  — 
Yet  that  resplendent  glow  has  left  a  radiant  light 
That  will  gr  >w  and  brighten  as  the  years  roll  by, 

And  leave  a  lasting  impress  on  the  hearts  of  mankind. 


MY  COUNTRY. 

My  Country!  I  love  the  stars  upon  thy  glorious  banner, 
Long  may  they  shine  o'er  this  my  native  land, 

And  tell  to  the  millions  yet  unborn  to  earth 
Of  thy  glorious  freedom  won  by  valor's  hand. 


WOMAN. 

Oh,  that  inexhaustible  subject! 

Filled  with  celestial  fire, 
On  which  no  seraph's  song  can  cease, 

No  poet's  pen  expire. 
Oh,  woman,  delightful  woman  ! 

In  vain  we  long  to  be 
Filled  with  that  ennobling  love, 

Found  alone  in  thee. 


P  O  E  M  S . 


BYRON. 

Oh,  thou  immortal  hard! 
Men  may  condemn  the  song 

That  issued  from  thy  heart  sublime, 
Yet  alas  !  its  music1  sweet 
Has  left  an  echo  that  will  sound 

Thro'  the  lone  corridors  of  Time. 

Thou  immortal  Byron  ! 
Thy  inspired  genius 

Let  no  man  attempt  to  smother — 
May  all  that  was  good  within  Hire 
Be  attributed  to  Heaven, 

All  that  was  evil— to  thy  mother. 


MY  LOVELY  VENUS. 

Oh,  thou,  my  lovely  Venus  ! 
If  1  were  a  s-tar  in  the  heavens. 

And  should  on  thy  countenance  shine^ 
I  would  hide  my  glowing  face, 
And  fall  into  nothingness 

At  the  foot  of  thy  sacred  shrine. 


MY  COUNTRY. 

My  Country  !  I  love  thy  dewy  hills  and  dales, 

And  the  buttercups  and  violets  in  thy  m<  adows  fair, 

I  love  the  balmy  bree/e  from  off  thy  pleasant  wood, 

And  the  sweet  notes  of  birds  that  swell  thy  peaceful  air. 


124  POEMS 

CLOSE  BY  HER  BOSOM. 

Close  by  her  bosom  let  me  sleep 
After  I've  lain  this  body  down, 

Adown  to  die ; 

And  in  stillness  sweet,  forever 
Beside  her  pure,  angelic  form, 

There  let  me  lie. 

Her  raven  hair  may  some  day  grow, 
And  like  the  tender  ivy,  find 

Some  open  place 
Beneath  the  lid  of  her  lone  pall, 
And  gath'ring  in  my  grave  may  cling 

Around  my  face. 

Plant  o'er  my  head  the  fragrant  rose 
That  oft  adorned  her  silken  hair, 

That  it  may  wave 
And  shed  its  sweet  perfume  above 
Her  sacred  face,  beloved,  adored, 

Within  the  grave. 

I'll  not  hear  her  gentle  voice, 
Nor  view  her  smiling  face  again. 

While  sleeping  there  ; 
But  at  the  first  dawn  of  the  morn 
When  we  arise,  I'll  kiss  her  face, 

And  kiss  her  hair. 

His  loving  voice  will  bid  us  come 
And  join  the  snow-white  throng  upon 
That  golden  strand ; 


POEMS.  12S 

We'll  pass  within  the  pearly  yrates 
And  thr  T  the  New  Jerusalem, 
With  hand  in  hand. 

TWO  LOVED  ONES  IX  HE \VEN. 

(On  the  death  of  two  lovely  girls  who  passed  away  a  short  time  sine;' 
n  this  city.) 

How  dark  are  the  shadows  that  linger  to-night 
'R  >und  the  h-nne  that  w  is  oncj  so  lovely  an  1  brght  — 
Death's  angel  h  is  passed  o'er  the  family  heart fi, 
And  plucked  from  its  circle  thj  fairest  of  earth. 

A  broken-hearted  mother  sits  weeping  to-night 
O'er  two  loved  ones  far  away  from  her  sight  ; 
But  she  sees  'rr.id  her  d^rkiicsa  the  Le;*-.itifiil  light 
Of  that  Saviour  who  guided  their  footsteps  aright. 

Sweet  Annie  and  Mary  were  the  treasures  of  life, 
Whose  hearts  knew  nothing  of  anger  and  strife — 
So  lovely  they  were  in  the  morning  of  youth 
Their  faces  were  beaming  with  beauty  and  truth. 

Their  days  were  too  few  to  be  ended  so  soon 

By  death's  cold  hand  ere  the  fullness  of  noon, 

And  e'en  tho'  fever  was  burning  their  cheek 

Of  their  heavenly  home  they  did  frequently  speak. 

It  was  harder  than  all  to  whisper  farewell 
To  these  dear  ones  we  have  always  loved  so  well; 
To  see  them  depart  in  their  innocent  bio  >m 
In  the  morning  of  life,  adown  to  the  tomb. 


P  0  E  M  S  . 

lUit  deep  in  our  bosoms  their  memory'll  be  borne, 
And  their  faces  be  to  us  like  the  spring-tide  morn- 
Tlieir  names  will  be  cherish'd  for  thatsw^et  love 
They  revealed  to  man  and  their  Saviour  above. 

On  s<  me  sweet  day  when  this  weary  life  is  o'er 
We'll  greet  their  happy  .smiles  on  the  other  shore- 
And  from  Annie  and  Mary  who  have  gone  before 
We  ne'er  again  can  part— no,  never  more. 


A  BROKEN  TIE 

Oh,  Time!  thru  e  hanger  and  ju&tifier  of  all  things, 
Tell  me,  thou  raven  or  white-wing'd  dove; 

Tell  me,  while  on  thy  winged  wings  I  soar, 
Shall  I  e'er  see  again  the  object  of  my  love? 

Have  I  not  love d  ONE  beautiful  and  fair, 
Who  in  other  days  lay  nearest  to  my  breast  ? 

Tell  me,  while  on  thy  fleeting  wings  I  sigh, 
Shall  h(  r  head  e'er  again  en  my  bosom  rest  ? 

Oh,  Time!  have  1  not  suft'er'd  all  for  her? — 

In  memory  have  I  not  grief  and  pain  withstood  ?- 

Hope,  love,  ambition,  have  they  not  all  been  lost, 
Huried  in  her  being— the  goddess  of  the  good? 

Have  I  not  seen  in  youth  my  fondest  hope 
(»row  dim  and  steal  away,  I  know  not  where? 

(iric'f,  pain,  regret,  have  they  not  turned 
This  heart,  these  eyes,  te>  one  embitter'el  te>ar? 


POEMS.  127 

Tell  me! — in  thy  strange,  relentless  flight, 
Canst  thou  not  stop  to  numd  a  broken  tie'? — 

That  tie  is  Love  and  fond  Affection 
For  HER,  the  baautiful,  f  >r  wh  >m  I  .sigh. 

JUST  SIMPLY  GRAND. 

In  lovely  attitude  she  stood, 

With  beaming  face,  in  a  happy  mood — 

I  wished  her  mine  ; 

Like  a  crimson  rose  in  the  dewy  morn 
Her  face  was  fair  to  look  upon  — 

So  rich,  divine. 

I  could  n't  but  love  her  snowy  neck, 
In  beauty  grand,  without  a  speck, 

Or  trace  at  all ; 

And  looking  then  at  her  pretty  feet, 
I  praised  that  lower  gift  complete 

And  very  small. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  summer  rose 
Were  her  pink  cheeks  and  pretty  nose, 

Just  simply  grand  ; 
And  looking  on  her  milk-white  arms, 
I  felt  inspired  by  their  charms, 
And  press'd  her  hand. 


Traveler,  view  yon  lovely  mansion 

Won  at  the  cost  of  a  widow's  tears- 
Naught  but  a  vacant  lot  you'll  see 
When  you  come  this  way  in  other  years. 


•12K  POEMS. 

FOOTPRINTS  BY  THE  MILL. 

Green  is  the  moss  that  clusters  around 
The  door  of  this  lonely  old  mill ; 

I  ran  see  my  gentle  Mary's  foot  prints 
Deep  traced  in  the  green  moss  ctill. 

The  old  rail  fence  o'er  which  she  elimb'd 

On  many  a  balmy  summer  day, 
Like  the  dark  mill  house  is  cover'd  with  moss, 

Broken  down  and  mould'ring  away. 

Ne'er  would  I  speak  of  this  gloomy  old  spot 
That  contains  not  a  scene  that  is  fair, 

If  my  Mary's  feet  had  not  linger'd  'round, 
And  left  their  sweet  imprints  there. 

My  Mary  was  a  lovely,  dark-eyed  girl, 
With  soft  brown  hair  and  smiling  face, 

And  slender  form  of  that  perfect  mold 
That  shows  a  world  of  truth  and  grace. 

Sad  is  the  mem'ry  of  this  dreary  old  mill, 
And  the  green  moss  'round  its  lonely  door; 

For  Mary  whom  I  loved  in  other  years 
Has  passed  away  to  return  no  more. 

She  passed  while  the  golden  sun  was  sinking 
On  a  cloudless  eve  in  the  month  of  May; 

She  gave  up  the  life  that  might  have  been  mine 
Had  she  not  passed  so  early  away. 

While  these  lone  and  dreary  scenes  I  view, 
And  I  list  to  the  sighing  winds  above, 

I  can  almost  see  my  Mary's  face, 
And  hear  her  tender  words  of  love. 


FOOTPRINTS  BY'  THE  MILL. 

Green  is  the  moss  that  clusters  around 
The  door  of  this  lonely  old  mill ; 

I  can  see  my  gentle  Mary's  footprints 
Deep  traced  in  the  green  moss  still. 


POEMS.  13 

Her  life  was  dear  to  me  in  early  youth, 
And  dearer  still  it  grew  in  after  years  ; 

To-day  in  memory  of  that  life  of  love, 

I'll  bathe  her  footprints  with  my  warmest  tears. 

She  was  poor,  but  that  she  could  not  help, 
It  was  her  lot  and  she  was  not  to  blame, 

Yet  she  retained  'mid  all  her  poverty 
That  grandest  thing  in  life — a  spotless  name. 

I  loved  her  because  she  was  poor  and  kind, 
And  bore  a  heart  that  often  beat  too  true  ; 

She  was  constant,  and  when  my  love  grew  weak 
She  ne'er  once  dreamed  of  turning  unto  you. 

She  was  too  fair  a  rose  to  bloom  alone, 

Encircled  by  the  dangerous  thorns  of  earth — 

She  died,  but  will  bloom  again  in  Heaven 
The  same  sweet  rose — but  of  nobler  birth. 


FAREWELL    TO  THOSE  MOMENTS. 
We  used  to  stroll  ofttimes  together 
In  spring-tide's  cool  and  balmy  weather, 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  meadow  green  ; 
But  now  she  strolls  in  a  distant  land, 
Her  feet  upon  the  sinking  sand, 

Heart  broken  and  less  serene. 
I  used  to  hold  her  pretty  hand 
Long  ere  it  wore  another's  band, 

And  kiss  it  o'er  and  o'er  again  ; 
]>ut  now  those  moments  loved  so  well 
Do  but  in  my  memory  dwell 

To  bear  a  joy  mixed  with  pain. 


132  P  O  E  M  8 

HTLLS,  ROADS,  A  VALLEY  AND  A  FOUNTAIN. 

(It  was  the  author's  pleasure  not  many  years  since,  while  in  the  "L-ind 
of  Flowers,'1  to  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  picturesque 
scenery  as  described  in  the  following  poem.) 

There  was  a  time  when  the  fire  of  youth 
BiirnM  deep  within  my  wayward  soul, 

I  often  stroll'd  oVr  pleasant  hills, 
Where  timid  mortals  seldom  stroll. 

Those  hills  were  never  coVerM  o'er 
With  nature's  cold  and  chilly  dew; 

But  damp  with  heaven's  melting  drops. 
They  were  ever  charming  to  my  view. 

Mine  eyes  had  never  seen  before 
SiK-h  lovely  hills  as  met  their  gaze; 

My  soul  was  in  a  paradise 

Where  it  alone  could  sweetly  gra/e. 

'Round  that  lone  spot  no  cypress  tree 
E'er  waved  with  leaves  of  gold  or  green; 

But  flowers  as  pure  as  the  lily's  leaf 
Lent  beauty  to  the  charming  scene. 

A  zephyr  sweet  from  off  those  hills 

Was  wafted  from  a  fount  below, 
Where  tender  sprigs  of  golden  grass 

Glisten'd  in  the  moonbeam's  glow. 

The  vale  between  those  dewy  hills 
Was  ne'er  so  enticing  to  mine  eyes 

As  when  the  moonbeam's  silvery  rays 
Played  on  it  from  the  midnight  skies. 


POEMS.  133 

Serene  and  quiet  were  those  hills 

Where  oft  ruy  fairtish'd  soul  had  fed; 
But  more  serene  was  the  lovely  vale 

Where  at  times  I  laid  my  weary  head. 

Oft  have  I  lain  at  twilight  eve 

With  buoyant  heart  and  tired  feet 
Beside  the  wild,  romantic  flowers, 

That  cluster'd  'round  that  fountain  sweet. 

Two  balmy  roads  led  to  the  fount, 
Where  never  wayward  feet  had  been 

Save  mine — for  it  was  chiefly  mine 
To  roam  and  meditate  therein. 

Oft  have  I  ruffled  the  golden  grass 
That  waved  in  beauty  day  and  night 

Beside  that  fount — but  in  my  haste 
On  a  summer  eve  I  took  my  flight. 

Those  hills  to  me  are  pleasant  still, 

And  will  be  till  I'm  old  and  gray; 
That  dewy  vale  with  its  loved  incline 

Is  where  my  h?ad  is  wont  to  lay. 

That  fount  is  still  a  lovely  spot, 

If  the  grass  retains  its  golden  hue — 
The  balmy  roads  are  pleasant  yet, 

If  sprinkled  with  the  fountain's  dew. 


As  the  ivy  twines  the  lily's  leaf  'neath  the  forest  tree, 
80  'mid  the  changing  scenes  of  life  I  cling  to  thee. 


POK  M  8, 

THE  AUTUMN  LEAVES. 

[  he;tr  tlit1  lonely  autumn  breeze 
S-'ghing  thro'  the  half-clad  maple  trees 

'Round  yonder  cot: 
The  golden  leaves  how  swiftly  they  fly 
While  the  dreary  branches  setm  to  sigfi7 

Is  this  OUR  lot  ? 

I  see  them  falling  unto  the  earth 
That  gave  their  stately  parents  birth, 

Like  flakes  of  gold  ; 

I  see  them  resting  on  the  meadow  grass, 
Lying  'round  me  in  a  golden  mass — 

In  earth  to  mould. 

How  strange  that  gentle  spring  should  bear 
Its  tender  leaves  for  autumn's  air 

To  fade  away, 

And  fall  in  death! — that  cruel  thing 
That  has,  alas!  a  venomed  sting 

For  mortal  clay. 

WORLDLY  PLEASURE. 

KYn  tho'  by  pursuit  we  honestly  gain  it, 
No  satisfaction  that  knowledge  would  bring  ; 

F<  r  soon  we'd  grow  tired  and  hate  to  btgin  it, 
And  cast  it  aside — a  detestable  thing. 

The  joy  in  pleasure  is  when  we  pursue  it, 

The  HOPE,  not  the  object  pursuit  would  attain  ; 

For  the  object  is  transient— hope  is  eternal; 
Pursuit  has  its  joy — to  gain  lias  its  pain. 


POEMS.  135 

FALSE,  UNGRATEFUL,  UNKIND. 

Far  from  thy  presence  would  to  Grjcl  I  could  flee, 
For  I'm  weary  of  the  pain  I  have  gather'd  from  thee: 
That  pain  too  fresh  and  too  deep  in  my  heart 
For  the  soul  of  forgiveness  ever  to  part. 

Thou  art  even  as  false  as  some  frivolous  youth 

Who  has  rejected  all  honor  and  discarded  the  truth  ; 

Thy  hand  at  this  moment  is  colder  than  death, 

And  the  words  from  thy  lips  are  but  poisonous  breath. 

Thou  art  fair  to  behold,  but  thy  bosom  is  hard, 
And  contains  not  a  feeling  I  now  can  regard  ; 
For  thou  hast  been  false,  ungrateful,  unkind — 
The  good  that  lay  in  thee  I  never  could  find. 


IN  THE  WILDS  OF  MY  SOUL. 

I  love  to  roam  in  the  wilds  of  my  soul 
Where  birds  sing  sweetly  and  flowers  are  fair; 

Where  there  are  streamlets,  lakes  and  ponds, 
With  naught  to  beset  or  tempt  me  there. 

I  love  to  sit  by  that  rippling  stream 
Whose  waters  no  eyes  can  e'er  behold 

Save  these  longing1  eyes  of  mine, 
In  that  sweet  world  to  mortals  untold. 

I  love  to  list  to  the  birds  in  the  trees 

As  they  warble  their  notes  on  the  stilly  air  ; 

And  T  love  to  be  with  the  beautiful  flowers 
That  bloom  in  the  wilds  of  my  soul  so  fair. 


POEMS, 

TWILIGHT  ON  THE  FARM. 

'Ti*  pleasant  to  see  the  broom-sedge  burning 
At  evening  twilight  on  the  farm  ; 

To  see  the  weary  cows  returning, 
And  hear  the  peacock's  wild  alarm. 

Tis  pleasant  to  see  the  rabbit  playing 
In  the  sand  beside  the  lonely  mill; 

To  hear  the  watch-dog  faintly  baying? 
i?cme  object  o'er  the  distant  hill. 

Tis  pleasant  to  see  the  dove  returning 
To  its  long  deserted,  gloomy  nest  ; 

To  hear  the  little  sparrow  yearning 
For  its  limb  of  quietude  and  rest. 

rTis  pleasant  to  hear  the  gentle  maideia 
Singing  'mid  the  garden's  bowers; 

To  see  her  peaceful  bosom  laden 
With  its  fairest  budding  flowers. 


P 1)  an(i  B -E. 

If  must  Iiave  been  LOVE  that  could  stoop  to  the  plain 
Of  shame  and  disgrace  and  endure  such  pain 
For  one  whose  passion  o'erbalanced  his  honor, 
As  shown  by  the  suffering  he  imposed  upon  her. 

It  must  have  been  LOVE  that  could  drink  from  the  spring 
Of  the  gall  of  bitterness — knowing  'twould  bring 
Eternal  disgrace— the  purity  of  life 
Forfeited  for  the  hope  of  becoming  a  wife. 


POEM  8.  l->7 

REPOSING. 

(On  l*>ing  asked  by  a  pretty  brown-eyed  girl,  in  the  month  of  August, 
to  write  a  poem  for  her  while  she  reposed.  The  following  lines  were 
presented  to  her  on  her  awakening.) 

As  I  stand  beside  thy  lovely  form. 
And  see  those  gentle  eyelids  close, 

I  feel  I'm  standing  by  an  angel 
Falling  into  sweet  repose. 

As  I  view  thy  snowy  neck  and  face, 
I  wish  that  they  were  only  mine  ; 

My  heart  grows  weary  for  repose 
Beside  that  tender  heart  of  thine. 

I  love  those  eyes  e'en  when  closed, 

And  too  I  love  that  pretty  nose — 
Thy  velvet  cheeks  they  are  to  me 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  summer  rose. 

I  love  that  sweet,  half-open'd  mouth, 
With  ivory  teeth  as  white  as  pearl — 

Ah,  yes,  to  me  'tis  untold  bliss 
To  stand  beside  this  sleeping  girl. 

A  MISTAKE. 

(The  poo  in  containing  three  verses,  published  in  my  second  book  and 
entitled  "That  Christmas  Card."  are  the  only  verses  in  my  life  which  I 
regret  ever  having  written.  The  entire  poem  is  a  mistake  caused  by  be 
ing  too  hasty.) 

I  would  willingly  forfeit  my  right  to  the  muse 

If  I  only  this  day  could  recall 
The  vtrses  I  wrote  in  the  heat  of  my  passion, 

Which  I  consider  the  meanest  of  all. 


POEMS. 
POOR  FELLOW,  HE'S  DEAD. 

Kind  friends,  you  like  me  while  I'm  gay. 
Arid  the  jolly  tide  of  youth  flows  on  ; 

But  you  will  never  think  of  me 
After  I'm  laid  away  and  gone. 

You'll  never  think  of  him  who  loved 
And  breathed  for  you  a  gracious  breath  ; 

Ah,  no,  you'll  e'er  forget  the  hands 
You  gently  cross'd  in  stilly  death. 

You'll  forget  all  the  friendly  smiles 
That  I  ever  for  you  have  shed, 

And  if  my  name  should  e'er  be  called, 
You'd  say,  ''Poor  fellow,  he's  dead!" 


ANNIE,  THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 

O  would  I  were  a  mocking-bird 
Like  the  one  that  sings  for  me, 

I'd  keep  my  lovely  throat  in  tune, 
And  warble  in  ev'ry  tree. 

I'd  sing  to  lonely  human  hearts, 
And  cheer  them  day  by  d«ay; 

At  night  I'd  charm  the  poet's  ear 
With  my  very  sweetest  lay. 

Long  would  I  sit  beside  his  door 
And  warble  his  "Marguerite," 

And  too  I'd  sing  "The  Mocking-Bird" 
In  accents  gay  and  sweet. 


PC)  R  M  S. 


THERE'S  BLISS  FOR  YOU. 

'Mid  life's  many  changing  scenes, 
Clouds  may  gather  o'er  your  way; 

Yet  behind  their  gloomy  shadows 
There's  for  you  a  brighter  day. 

Disappointment  fast  may  come, 
As  hope  upon  its  wings. expires ; 

But  faith  and  love  will  bring  to  pass 
Your  fondest  wishes  and  desires. 


IN  MEMORIAL. 

(To  a  young  lady  who  sought  publicity  by  attempting  to  belittle  in 
public  print  a  poem  by  the  author,  entitled  "Beautiful  Snow"— She  has 
never  been  heard  from  through  the  press  since.) 

She  died  after  the  beautiful  snow  had  melted, 

And  was  buried  beneath  the  "slush  ;" 
The  last  sad  words  she  breathed  upon  earth 
Were  these  simple  ones,  "Oh,  poet,  do  hush!" 


CHILDHOOD  SCENES. 
O  raptured  scenes  of  childhood  hours  ! 

In  memory  I  behold 
Thy  dewy  paths  and  grassy  hills 

Where  oft  my  feet  have  stroll'd. 


ALONE. 

I  feel  like  some  lone,  deserted  lad, 
Standing  on  the  shore  of  life's  great  ocean 
Casting  pebbles  in  its  billows,  as  if  to  excite 
Some  past  emotion. 


,140  PO  E  M  R 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THY  FACE. 

My  rnem'ry  calls  me  back  when  I  first  saw  thy  face. 
Those-  moments  in  my  life  that  are  dearest  of  all— 

To  the  hour  when  I  met  thee  in  heauty  and  grace, 
That  hour  of  rapture  f  delight  to  recall. 

As  I  stand  by  thy  shrine  of  beauty  and  truth 
I  paint  me  a  picture  no  artist  cati  paint — 

A  picture  of  thee  in  the  bloom  of  thy  youth, 
Fair  as  the  lily  and  as  pure  as  a  saint. 

The  love  that  exists  in  that  bosom  of  thine 

Is  as  perfect  as  the  bloom  on  thy  beautiful  face, 

Thus  fain  I  would  kneel  at  the  foot  of  thy  shrine 
And  there  be  absorbed  in  thy  beauty  and  grace. 

I  speak  not  to  flatter  thee,  remember  this  well, 
As  the  mem'ry  of  thy  face  this  day  I  recall — 

For  deep  in  my  bosom  thy  spirit  doth  dwell, 
And  thou  to  that  bosom  art  dearer  than  all. 

Thy  smiles  are  as  soft  as  the  sunbeam's  ray 
When  it  kisses  the  hills  in  the  distant  west; 

They  light  up  my  soul  from  day  unto  day, 
And  bring  to  my  life  eternal,  sweet  rest. 

Thou  art  a  charm  to  my  wandering  eye, 
The  flower  of  my  hope— a  milk-white  dove; 

And  a  star  in  the  east  in  the  cloudless  sky, 
More  beautiful  to  me  than  an  angel  of  love. 


This  life  is  but  a  fleeting  scene  of  trials  and  sorrow, 
A  faint  ray  of  hope  to-day,  a  dismal  cloud  to-morrow. 


POEMS.  141 

THERE'LL  BE  MY  TOMB. 

T'm  in  the  world,  a  world  of  sighs, 
Of  sorrow,  pain  and  weeping  eyes, 

And  ofttirues  gloom  ; 
I  love  the  few  sweet  suuny  hours 
I've  spent  amid  the  woodland  flowers — 

There'll  be  my  tomb. 

My  tomb!  but  ah,  I'm  loath  to  die, 
And  'neath  those  lovely  flowers  lie 

Mould'ring  away; 

They'll  bloom  sweetly,  but  in  that  tomb 
I'll  not  scent  their  sweet  perfume, 
Each  silent  day. 

Sweet  summer  with  its  peaceful  calm 
Will  bear  a  pure  and  holy  balm 

Around  that  mound  ; 
But  alas  !  no  boon  'twill  bring  to  me, 
For  I'll  not  feel,  or  hear  or  see, 

Beneath  the  ground. 

Then  what  care  I  to  leave  a  name 
Praised  for  genius,  wealth  or  fame, 

When  I  am  gone; 

Such  praises  as  your  lips  would  bear 
I'd  not  care  to  hear  up  there, 

Beside  God's  throne. 

There's  many  an  angel  in  the  hovels  of  earth, 
'Mid  the  lonely  shades  of  the  forest  pine, 

Hidden  from  the  view  of  the  passer-by 
By  the  gloomy  leaves  of  the  ivy  vine. 


( f*  !'  O  K  M  S . 

OUR  FINAL  HOME. 

Just  above  us— not  a  score  of  miles  away, 
We'll  spend  our  vast  eternity— some  day; 
A  ble^td  abode  where  all  is  pure  and  fair— 
Spirits  of  many  loved  ones  gone — they  are  there. 

The  .JUST  alone  — these  who  have  loved  on  earth, 
And  much  sorrow  endured— of  lowly  birth  ; 
They  shall  wing  their  wray  thro'  realms  sublime, 
taught  shall  mar  their  flight— not  even  Time. 

Fl<  ating  iransu  us  will  be  there,  and  walls  of  gold, 
And  yt>t<s  of  jtarls,  these  j-hall  our  eyes  behold  ; 
And  strtets  whose  surface  purest  gold  shall  grace, 
Will  be  our  grand,  eternal  home—in  SPACE. 

Xaught  but  the  gentle,  the  sinless  and  the  fair, 
riiiiinhale  the  fragrance  of  that  heavenly  air, 
Wlu  re  flowers  bloom  in  love,  and  the  sunlight  is  clear, 
And  no  etelids  are  heavy  with  sorrow  and  care. 

Dentil  is  like  a  dream— a  pure  and  simple  dream; 
A  peaceful  voyage  upon  a  peaceful  s-tieam  ; 
A  .-tream  wjio.se  waters—  unlike  the  troubled  sea— 
Will  btar  our  frail  bark  ori  to  Eternity. 

ftFARE;\VELL!" 

This  word  to  a  y(  uthful  heart  is  solemn, 
And  one  on  which  I  would  not  dwell; 
But  to-night  it  must  be  spoken, 
80  unto  you  I  say— "fart  well !" 


POEMS.  14?, 

TO  MY  MOTHER, 

Lean  on  this  bosom,  'tis  for  thee  it  doth  swell, 
It  shall  bear  thee,  support  thee,  and  comfort  thee  well; 
Not  a  thought,  not  a  word  in  life  I  would  speak 
That  would  bear  for  a  momenta  tear  to  thy  cheek. 

Lean  on  this  b'jsom,  'tis  for  thee  it  doth  swell, 
No  other  is  so  worthy  in  its  chamber  to  dwell ; 
An  angel  of  p3ace  thou  art  unto  ni3— 
I  forget  all  my  sorrows  while  thinking  of  thea. 

Lean  on  this  bosom,  for  'tis  given  to  thee; 
A  touch  of  thy  being  bears  strength  unto  me; 
The  smile  on  thy  face,  like  the  smile  of  the  morn, 
Will  live  in  my  heart  when  all  others  are  gone. 


A  MUSTACHELESS  BARD. 

His  whiskers  didn't  come,  his  mustache  is  gone, 

And  to-day  he's  standing  ashore 
Enjoying  the  breeze  with  a  cleaned  shaved  lip, 

Relieved  of  the  burden  it  bore. 

He's  feeling  so  lonely,  dull  and  forsaken, 

The  b  >ys  they  know  him  no  more  ; 
The  girls  are  surprised,  and  speaking •• of  hi nj, 

Say,  "He's  uglier  than  ever  before.'1 

He  can't  understand  why  the  beautiful  girls 

Should  thus  b3  so  cruel  and  rash, 
Unless  they  believe,  that  kisses  are  sweeter 

From  lips  that  b^ar  a  mustache. 


144  F  O  K  M  8  . 

MAY  A  LI,  THESE  BE  THINE,   MAYME. 

May  thy  cheeks  be  as  soft  and  sweet 
As  the  hyacinths  'round  thy  gentle  feet. 
And  may  those  lovely  eyes  of  thine 
Like  stars  of  beauty  ever  shine. 

May  thy  soft  locks  of  raven  hair 
Lend  beauty  to  thy  neck  so  fair, 
And  may  thy  bosom,  pure  and  white, 
Be  ever  filled  with  Truth  and  Right. 

May  thy  sweet  life  be  naught  but  love. 
And  gentle  like  the  turtle  dove; 
And  may  thy  hand  be  free  to  do 
All  that's  noble,  kind  and  true. 


There's  something  sweetly  solemn 
In  the  moonbeam's  silvery  ray»v 

Beat  ing  thoughts  of  other  years. 
Their  melancholy  days. 


There's  nothing  in  life  to  live  for. 
Except  it  be  sorrow  and  pain  ; 

But  There's  more  in  death  than  dying 
To  simply  exist  again. 


Tn  in  the  light  of  Truth  into  the  chamber  of  your  soul. 
And  there  let  it  glow  like  a  radiant  star  ; 

U  will  dispel  all  the  sickening  shadows  therein, 
And  show  you,  poor  mortal,  just  what  you  are. 


P  O  E  M  8 .  145 

'TIS  HAKD  TO  BE  HAPPY. 

I  wish  I  was  happy,  but  that  cannot  be 
While  I'm  drifting  on  life's  changeable  sea; 
Ever  toss'd  by  the  waves  is  my  frail  little  bark, 
As  on  to  Eternity  it  floats  in  the  dark. 

I  wish  I  was  happy,  but  that  cannot  be 
While  the  grave  with  its  terrors  lies  open  for  me. 
As  I  look  into  its  bosom  so  lonely  and  cold 
My  soul  is  absorbed  in  mystery  untold. 

In  mystery  untold! — for  no  mortal  knows 
The  gloom  and  the  shadow  of  that  chilly  repose— 
O'ershadow'd  as  I  am,  and  if  that  shadow  be  true, 
' Tis  enough  for  this  soul  without  punishment  too. 

To  that  monster  Death  I'm  but  a  weak  slave, 
Drawn  down  by  his  hand  to  the  horrible  grave, 
And  I  cannot  escape,  but  must  suffer  my  doom. 
To  lay  down  forever  in  darkness  and  gloom. 

'Tis  hard  to  be  happy  since  hope  has  been  lost 
In  the  changes  of  life,  with  its  sunshine  and  frost, 
While  the  grave's  cold  bosom  lies  open  for  me, 
As  my  frail  bark  floats  on  to  Eternity. 


TO  THE  POOR  YOUNG  MAX. 

'Tis  better  to  part  from  the  girl  you  love, 

The  one  whom  you  adore, 
If  that  dark  eyed  sister  in  your  home 

Loves  to  slam  the  door. 


140          .  POP:  MS. 

AN  EMPTY  VASE 

(On  seeing  an  empty  vase,  covered  with  dust,  in  a  room  once  bright 
with  the  smiles  of  a  lovely  Christian  #irl ;  Imt  now  deserted,  and  hearing 
the  odor  of  faded  flowers.) 

Tho'  it  sits  upon  the  mantle 

In  a  lone  and  dusty  place, 
Yet  it  bears  the  pleasant  iiiem'ry 

Of  a  kind  and  happy  face. 

The  face  of  one  departed 
From  the  shades  of  earthly  gloom, 

Whose  tender  smiles  still  linger, 
Tho'  she  sleeps  in  the  silent  tomb. 

That  hand  so  kind  and  lovejy 

Moves  no  longer  there 
To  deck  that  vase  and  mantle 

With "flowers  rich  and  fair. 

Who  kuew  her  tender  thoughts 

As  she  plucked  the  lilac  bloom 
And  bore  it  to' this  lonely  vase,  ' 

Still  sitting  in  the  room. 

But  that  vase  is  empty  now, 
Those  hahids  are  cold  and  gone  ; 

The  lilac  buds  therein  no  more 
Will  bloom  on  summer's  morii. 

I  had  rather  hear  air  Earthquake 
As  it  roars  'neath  hill  and  valley, 

Than  to  hear  those  angry  urnler-tones 
From  the  pouting  lips  of  Salley. 


POEM  8.  14T 

BEWARE  OF  YOUR  CHARACTER. 

Beware  of  your  .-haracter,  my  charming  young  girl, 
Keep  it  near  to  your  heart  as  a  priceless  pearl  ; 
Theie  are  thieves  who  would  steal  from  your  hand  and  arm, 
Ami  then  rob  your  bosom  of  its  costliest  charm. 

Beware  of  your  character,  my  charming  young  girl, 
Deceit  has  a  dagger  which  at  you  it  would  hurl, 
And  men  of  the  world  would  smile  if  the  dart 
Was  destroying  the  peace  of  your  innocent  heart. 

Beware  of  your  character,  my  charming  young  girl, 
As  a  banner  of  purity  m?y  it  ever  unfurl, 
And  the  hearts  of  all  men  be  led  to  admire 
That  character  aglow  with  a  heavenly  fire. 

CIRCUMSTANCES. 

In  Circumstances  chilly  hand, 
O'er  a  dangerous  gulf  we  stand, 

Hungry  and  sore; 
No  human  hand  can  save  us  there, 
We  must  endure  our  own  despair 

Forever  more. 

Oh.  Circumstances !  what  e'er  thou  art. 
Thy  hands  have  sever'd  many  a  heart 

Naught  else  could  sever; 
Tho'  Time  should  part  thy  cruel  grasp, 
.,Yet  ,the  impress  of  its  clasp, 

Will  bleed  forever. 


148  POEMS 

MEMORY'S  PICTURE. 

In  my  memory  there's  a  picture  I  love  to  behold 
Of  a  face  whose  meaning1  has  never  been  told  ; 
'Tis  lovelier  than  the  white-robed  clouds  in  the  west 
As  they  downward  move  to  where  the  sunbeams  rest. 

That  picture  is  painted  in  colors  not  as  bold 
As  earth's  flashy  hues  of  purple  and  gold — 
The  artist  that  painted  it  came  from  above, 
With  TRUTH  his  brush,  and  his  colors  were  LOVE. 

As  I  look  in  those  eyes  that  are  dearest  to  me 
In  those  charming1  blue  orbs  heaven  I  see; 
My  thoughts  are  borne  away  to  the  skies 
As  I  gaze  with  rapture  in  those  sweet  eyes. 

As  I  picture  that  face  so  blissful,  divine, 
There's  a  feeling  of  joy  in  this  bosom  of  mine; 
But  'tis  mingled  with  grief  that  I  should  behold 
That  face  whose  meaning  I  cannot  unfold. 

As  I  view  with  pleasure  that  dove-like  form 
I  see  the  embodiment  of  friendship  warm  ; 
And  my  soul  with  its  love  would  nevermore  siidi 
If  that  form — not  its  picture — was  ling'ring  nigh. 


A  MONUMENT  OF  LOVE. 
My  love  shall  remain  thro' endless  time 
A  monument  to  thy  love  sublime 

I  now  adore ; 

No  marble  pillar  shall  mark  the  spot— 
Let  the  violet  and  forget-me-not 
liloum  evermoiv. 


POEMS.  149 


NOT  SATISFIED. 

Though  we  go  in  the  fleld  where  the  lilies  are  blooming 

In  all  their  gentle  pride, 

Yet  we'll  feel  like  a  stranger,  and  a  pilgrim  forever, 
For  after  all 

We  are  not  satisfied. 

Though  we  sit  'mid  the  shade  of  the  far-reaching  oak, 

And  by  the  daisies  abide, 

We'll  still  feel  forsaken  and  alone  in  the  world. 
For  after  all, 

We  are  not  satisfied. 

Though  we  lay  near  the  brook  on  the  cool,  green  moss, 

And  turn  from  side  to  side, 
We'll  still  feel  neglected  and  sadly  undone, 
For  after  all 

We  are  not  satisfied. 

Though  we  watch  the  flow  of  the  beautiful  river, 

As  its  waters  subside, 

We'll  still  feel  unhappy  and  ever  so  weary, 
For  after  all 

We  are  not  satisfied. 

Though  we  sit  near  the  angel  that  shines  by  the  hearth; 

She  in  our  love  confide, 

We'll  still  be  in  sorrow  arid  acquainted  with  grief, 
Longing  for  rest 

And  never  satisfied. 

Though  we  standby  the  fountain  that's  flowing  with  love 

And  drink  of  its  sweet  tide, 

We'll  still  bear  the  feeling  and  doleful  assurance: 
Love  is  bitter— 

We  are  not  satisfied. 


150  POEMS. 

REMEMBER'D  SMILES. 

(On  the  death   of  3Iiss  E.  AY,,  a  charming  young  lady,  and  a  devoted 
Christian,  who  passed  a-way  some  time  since  in  this  city,) 

Beautiful  smiles,  remembered  smiles, 

They  come  like  sunbeams  from  the  cloudless  west; 
They  feme  frcm  the  face  and  the  peaceful  heart 

Of  a  loved  one  now  in  her  home  of  rest. 

They  speak  of  a  lovely,  purified  soul, 

Whose  life  was  as  pure  as  the  air  she  breathed  ; 

They  tell  of  the  beauty  of  the  home  she  loved, 
Of  the  Christ  she  sought,  and  never  deceived. 

They  tell  of  the  rapture,  beautiful  rapture, 
Of  a  life  well  spent  in  this  vale  of  tears, 

They  show  as  the  dew  drops  show  the  flower, 
That  Heaven  has  a  balm  for  mortal  cares. 

They  tell  of  a  lowrly,  crucified  One 

Whose  smiles  were  to  her  like  a  sunbeam's  kiss; 
They  speak  as  she  spoke  in  a  world  of  sin  : 

"Jesus,  to  love  Thee  is  rapturous  bliss." 


LYDIE'S  SWEET  DARK  EYES. 

Her  dark  eyes — I  love  to  gaze  within  them 
Whene'er  I  pass  that  shady  spot 

'Round  that  loved  door; 
Fain  would  I  pause  when  she  is  there, 
And  gazing  on  her  face  and  hair, 

Would  love  her  more. 


(SECOND  VOLUME.) 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  FRIEND,  DR.  W.  J.   MURRAY, 
OF  COLUMBIA,  S.  C. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


152  POEMS. 

TEE  A  I)  SOFTLY. 

Tmid  softly,  oh,  you  mortal  man 
As  you  journey  here  below, 

There':-  many  a  pure  and  lovely  rose 
Where'er  y<  ur  footsteps  go. 

There's  many  a  rose  bud  drooping  low 
That  once  was  fresh  and  sweet, 

Now  perishing  for  want  of  care 
Beneath  your  wayward  feet. 

Oft  'mid  the  dingy  autumn  leaves 
The  rose  sheds  a  brighter  hue, 

But  only  thro'  the  grace  of  God, 
And  his  sweet  morning  dew. 

There's  many  a  sweet  and  lonely  bud 
That's  bending  in  the  clay, 

While  you  go  heedlessly  along 
Life's  bright  and  happy  way. 

Tread  softly,  oh,  you  mortal  man, 
Don't  cease  to  watch  and  fear 

Lest  you  should  pass  some  fallen  one 
Who  needs  your  love  and  care. 


WRITTEN  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

Time  may  stain  this  spotless  page. 
And  these  simple  lines  erase  ; 

But  it  cannot  dim  the  mem'ry 
Of  thy  well-beloved  face. 


POEMS.  153 

NO  AUTUMN  IN  THE  HEART. 

The  >ellow  leaves  are  falling,  love, 

The  summer  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  we  are  no  nearer  to-day,  love, 

Than  we  have  been  before. 

The  tender  bloom  of  youth,  love, 

Is  fas-tly  growing  adim, 
And  soon  'twill  fade  away,  love, 

As  the  leaves  on  yonder  limb. 

Our  hands  will  soon  grow  cold,  love, 

Our  footsteps  be  in  grief; 
Our  weary  heads  will  droop,  love, 

As  droops  the  autumn  leaf. 

No  autumn  in  the  heart,  love, 

Shall  come  to  you  and  me, 
Tho'  we'll  be  lone  at  night,  love, 

As  the  leafless  autumn  tree. 

Deep  grief  will  come  to  us,  love, 

Which  we  can  never  part; 
Tho'  sore  it  cannot  bring,  love, 

Sad  autumn  in  the  heart. 


A  PRETTY  GIRL. 

On  her  beautiful  face  there  are  smiles  of  grace 
That  linger  in  beauty  serene, 

And  there  are  no  pimples  encircling  her  dimples 
As  ever,  as  yet,  I  have  seen. 


154  POEMS. 

SOME  DAY. 

Some  day — it  may  be  while  the  sun  is  sinking 

Slowly  in  the  distant  west, 
I  will  cross  that  unknown  river,  mother, 

To  that  sunny  shore  of  rest. 

Some  day,  when  the  smile  of  loved  ones  gone 

Bids  me  come  to  yonder  shore, 
I'll  meet  and  kiss  you,  and  be  with  you, 

And  see  your  face  forevermore. 

Some  day,  when  life's  dim  star  has  flickered  out, 

I'll  bid  adieu  to  earthly  care— 
I'll  leave  behind  no  false  impression 

Of  the  life  spent  while  with  you  here. 


'TIS  OF  THEE  THAT  I  THINK. 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think  when  the  twilight  is  dawning, 
And  the  night  shade  of  gloom  is  parted  and  gone, 

And  Nature  with  joy  awakes  from  her  slumber 
To  welcome  with  pride  the  beautiful  morn. 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think  when  the  sun  is  advancing 
Its  life-giving  beams  on  all  nature  around  ; 

Its  smiles — like  thine — to  my  soul  are  enchanting, 
And  remind  me  of  thee,  where  pleasures  abound. 

'Tis  of  thee  that  I  think  when  the  twilight  of  evening 
Is  gathering  around  this  bosom  of  mine, 

Shedding  a  glimmer  in  the  portals  of  hope 
Where  my  joy  and  peace  lie  buried  in  thine. 


POEMS. 

THAT  RED  HAT. 

I  love  that  broad-brim'd,  stylish  hat, 
All  covered  o'er  with  crimson  red  ; 

J  love  it  because  'tis  often  seen 
Upon  my  darling's  precious  head. 

I  love  the  smiles  beneath  that  brim 
On  which  my  soul  has  often  fed; 

I  love  them,  for  they  sweetly  glow 
In  beauty  'neath  a  crimson  red. 

I  love  those  youthful,  precious  strands, 
Of  silken,  soft  and  downy  bair  ; 

I  Jove  them,  for  they  cluster  'round 
My  darling's  neck  so  pure  and  fair. 

I  love  those  cheeks  of  velvet  hue; 

Like  ftowtrs  in  a  dewy  bed  ; 
I  love  that  girl,  and  love  that  hat 

All  cover'd  o'er  with  crimson  red. 


"YOUNG  MANHOOD." 

In  passion's  wayward  stream  we  float, 
A  strange  and  irresistless  tide; 

Reckless  thoughts,  suggestive  words, 
Oft  greet  our  ears  on  either  side. 

"Young  manhood"  is  not  all  in  name, 
A  dull,  obscure,  unmeaning  term — 

Nor  is  it  like  the  lifeless  tree 
That  has  forever  lost  its  germ. 


156  POEMS 

A  GOLDEN  HATRED  GIRL. 

Fair  lady  I'll  admit  that  I've  loved  in  the  past, 

And  at  many  a  shrine  have  knelt ; 
But  I  knew  not  the  depth  of  my  hearts  true  love 

Till  a  glance  from  your  eyes  I  had  felt. 

But  that  smile  is  not  mine  on  your  rose-tinted  cheeks, 
Nor  that  sunlight  of  hope  in  your  eyes; 

Yet  gladly  I  love  them,  for  I  know  they  are  true, 
And  as  constant  as  the  starj  in  the  skies. 

Your  hair  is  a  treasure,  so  silken  and  soft, 

Oft  gather'd  into  one  bright  fold  ; 
It  bears  the  rich  hue  that  I  always  admired — 

A  beautiful  California  gold. 

There's  a  harp  in  your  bos'nn  that  bears  many  notes 

The  sweetest  these  lonely  ears  have  heard  ; 
Its  strings  are  divine,  for  they  tell  me  of  love 
.        In  soft  notes  that  outrival  the  bird. 

Adieu,  fair  lady!  if  no  mare  we  should  meet, 
And  your  sweet  form  be  drifted  apart, 

Yet  the  sacred  mem'ry  of  your  matchless  face 
I  will  ever  keep  fresh  in  my  heart. 


BUT  FEW  VIRTUES. 

Many  are  the  great  men  the  world  has  produced 
Whose  virtues,  alas!  have  been  few; 

For  they  have  drank  in  sin  with  as  much  delight 
As  the  butterfly  drinks  the  dew. 


POEMS. 
A  GRACIOUS  FREEXD. 

(Written  by  request  on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  young  lady's  Bible.) 

Earthly  friends  may  prove  untrue 

And  coldly  on  thee  look, 
But  thou  wilt  have  a  lasting  friend 

If  trusting  in  this  Book. 

Dark  clouds  may  gather  o'er  thy  head, 

And  hover  'round  thee  near; 
But  this  Book  will  be  a  beacon  light 

To  guide  thy  feet  from  fear. 

Cold  hands  may  touch  thy  gentle  hand 

Whom  long  thy  love  forsook  ; 
But  thou  wilt  hold  a  gracious  hand 

If  trusting  in  this  Book. 

VOCAL  MUSIC. 

That  sweetly  sad  melody 

That  conies  from  the  golden  strings 

Of  that  tender'st  of  harps — the  heart. 
80  strange,  so  sweetly  strange 
It  gives  that  to  the  human  soul 

Which  angels  cannot  impart. 

That  fond  harp  of  a  thousand 
Ever-tuned,  invisible  strings, 

Swelled  by  the  touch  of  sacred  love  ; 
Bo  strange,  so  sweetly  strange, 
It  often  bears,  and  it  alone, 

The  vilest  heart  to  heaven  above. 


158  POEMS. 

ALONE  AT  MIDNIGHT  ON  THE  (  ONGAKKE, 

f  watched  the  moon  at  the  midnight  hour 
As  it  hlowly  sunk  to  the  distant  west; 

It  lookt  d  like  an  angel  clothed  in  white, 
Softly  stealing  to  its  home  of  rest. 

I  watched  it  pass  'hind  the  fleeting  clouds, 
As  it  cast  its  shadows  down  upon  me; 

Then  again  it  would  scatter  its  silvery  rays 
On  the  lonely  hills  hy  the  Congaree. 

I  watched  it  until  the  distant  clouds 
Gather'd  in  the  west  and  passed  away; 

Then  I  beheld  in  its  matchless  beauty 
That  mystic  circle— the  milkyway. 

I  thought  of  the  millions  of  human  souls 
That  have  watched  its  light  on  land  and  sea, 

And  of  the  thousands  who  in  other  days 
Have  watched  it  by  old  Congaree. 

I  .thought  as  it  sunk  in  the  far-off  west, 
And  withdrew  from  my  view  its  last  fond  ray, 

How  sweet  if  my  life  like  that  silvery  orb 
Could  peacefully  and  quietly  steal  away. 

DON'T  WOUND  HER  FEELINGS. 

Young  man,  don't  wound  her  feelings 
With  words  that  are  cold  and  rough, 

For  life  with  its  vicissitudes 
Will  wound  them  soon  enough. 


POEMS.  150 

PASSING  AWAY. 

Every  thing  passes  away  in  its  turn, 
Teaching  the  sad  lesson  we  all  must  learn: 
The  breeze  that  cooled  your  cheek  is  gone, 
Never  to  cool  it  again  in  the  morn. 

The  flowers  that  sweetly  bloom  in  the  lane 
Will  fade  and  never  be  seen  there  again ; 
The  swamp's  fair  lily  and  green-clad  fern, 
Will  pass  from  their  bed  and  never  return. 

The  birds  that  chirp  about  in  the  trees, 
Are  passing  away  like  the  morning  breeze  • 
All  pass-to  their  destiny  void  of  regard 
For  their  Maker,  Sustainer,  Adorable  God. 

The  dark  river- water  that  flows  in  its  course 
Can  never  again  return  to  its  source; 
And  the  crystal  water  that's  deep  in  the  well 
Is  bidding  its  source  a  lasting  farewell. 

And  man!  one  immortal,  with  senses  of  right, 
With  heaven  in  his  soul  and  God  in  his  sight, 
Must  pass  like  the  rest,  each  in  his  turn. 
On  to  the  grave,  never  to  return. 


I'LL  ONLY  THINK  OF  THEE. 

Miss  Annie,  as  oft  in  solitude 
As  whene'er  'tis  mine  to  be, 

I'll  silence  ev'ry  wayward  thought. 
And  only  think  of  thee. 


160  POEM  S. 

THINKING  OF  THEE. 

In  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night, 

As  the  ericket  chirps  upon  the  hearth, 

I'm  prone  to  be 

Sadly  wandering,  sadly  lurking, 
'Round  some  old  familiar  spot 

Alone  with  thee. 

As  I  list  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 
As  it  ticks  away  the  midnight  hour, 

Its  solemn  sound 
Sadly  echoes,  sadly  deepens, 
As  it  bears  my  heart  to  thee 

Where  peace  is  found. 

As  I  list  to  the  earliest  pipe 

Of  the  half-awafcen'd  mocking-bird 

In  the  elm  tree, 

There's  a  whisper,  gentle  whisper, 
That  tells  my  soul  that  some  sweet  day 

I'll  be  with  thee. 


SLEEP,  SWEET  CHILD. 

(On  a  child's  grave.) 

,  swett  child  in  thy  little  bed, 
Flowers  are  blooming  o'er  thy  head — 
The  daisies  fair  and  violets  sweet 
Shall  ever  cluster  'round  thy  feet. 

Sleep,  sweet  child,  in  thy  little  bed, 
No  wind  shall  murmur  o'er  thy  head  ; 

But  the  gentle  breeze  of  love  shall  wave 
Each  dewy  flower  o'er  thy  grave. 


POEMS.  161 

TO  LYDIE. 

As  the  la^t  rays  of  sunset  are  fading  away, 

This  eve  I  think  of  thee, 
And  picture  thy  sweet  face  in  all  its  beauty, 

80  fondly  dear  to  me. 

1  think  of  thee  \\hile  gazing  on  the  western  clouds 

Tinged  with  purest  gold  ; 
And  treasure  thee  as  one  far  dearer  to  me 

Than  all  I  now  behold. 

I  think  of  thee  while  sitting  on  the  cool,  sweet  grass, 

And  looking  o'er  the  park, 
And  wonder  if  this  heart  will  e'er  be  lighted 

By  thy  ennobling  spark. 


THE  CUP  OF  SORROW. 

This  weary  life  is  filled  with  grief, 
With  sorrow  deep,  and  we've  no  relief 
From  that  overflowing  cup 
Which  we  must  drink  of,  sup  by  sup. 

'Tis  sad  that  we  live  to  droop  and  die, 
With  no  kind  friend  to  linger  nigh, 
And  no  sweet  voice  that  gently  speaks, 
Or  hand  to  touch  our  burning  cheeks. 

'Tis  sad  that  we  hold  life's  bitter  cup, 
Only  to  drink  of  it,  sup  by  sup  ; 
To  know  we  cannot  lay  it  by, 
But  must  drink,  alas!  and  slowly  die. 


162  F  O  E  M  8 . 


SHE'S  VERY  DEAR  TO  ME. 

There's  a  little  brown  eyed  lady 

Who  is  very  dear  to  me, 
She  occupies  a  lovely  cottage 

'Mid  the  oaks  in  Waverly. 

She's  a  pretty,  smiling  lady, 
But  I  seldom  see  her  smiles, 

For  our  homes  are  far  apart, 
Just  about  two  dreary  miles. 

I'm  very  fond  of  this  sweet  lady, 
For  she  has  such  beaming  eyes: 

But  if  I  procrastinate 
Another  heart  may  win  the  prize. 

She's  a  polished,  noble  lady, 
Highly  learned,  industrious  too, 

And  her  sunny  hand  is  faithful 
In  whate'er  it  finds  to  do. 

In  my  being  there's  no  object 
That  can  fill  its  better  part 

Save  this  little  brown  eyed  lady — 
She  is  nearest  to  my  heart. 


TEARS. 

Tears!  they  always  tell  a  tale 
No  human  knowledge  can  avail 

To  solve,  or  find  the  meaning  true 
Of  those  pure  drops  of  sacred  dew. 


POEMS.  163 

TO  ELEANORE. 

Fond  as  the  remember'd  kisses  of  lips  now  in  the  grave 

Is  that  sweet  face  of  thine  ; 
Of  kisst-s  when  the  heart  reposed  in  sweeter  hope 

Thai)  this  vain  hope  of  mine. 

]>ear  as  the  remember'd  smiles  on  youth's  unsullied  cheek 

In  hoy  hood's  dewy  morn, 
Are  thy  sweet  and  tender  smiles  to  me  so  fondly  dear, 

In  beauty  ever  borne. 

Fond  as  the  summer's  morn  when  the  maiden's  sweet  hand 

Gathers  the  lilac  bloom, 
Are  those  endearing  smiles  upon  thy  lovely  face, 

Dispelling  my  inmost  gloom. 

Loved  as  the  remember'd  notts  of  music  on  the  air 

From  a  voice  most  divine, 
Are  those  enchanting  notes  that  swell  my  lonely  heart 

With  that  sweet  love  of  thine. 

PULL  OF  THOSE  SUSPENDERS. 

(It  used  to   lie   the  stylo  for  ladies  to  wear  suspenders,  oratleasta 
#•<»<!  imitation  of  samp  which,  however,  called  forth  the  following  lines.) 

Sweet  girl,  I  like  to  see  you  look 

The  very  best  you  can  ; 
But  please  do  not  try  so  soon 

To  imitate  a  man. 
You  are  not  masculine  or  neuter, 

Neither  of  those  genders; 
Therefore,  I'd  advise  you  to 

Pull  off  those  suspenders. 


164  POEMS 

THY  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

Thy  father  will  some  time  reject  thee 
When  thy  path  is  sin  and  strife  ; 

But  thy  mother  will  e'er  protect  thee 
In  the  thorny  paths  of  life. 

Thy  sister  will  some  time  neglect  thee 
When  thy  face  is  absent  long  ; 

But  thy  mother  will  ne'er  forget  thee 
In  her  gentle  words  of  song. 

Thy  brother  will  some  time  detest  thee 
When  thy  feet  have  gone  astray; 

But  thy  true  mother  will  e'er  bless  thee 
Till  she's  laid  beneath  the  clay. 


DEPARTED  HOPE. 

We've  seen  it  fade  in  youth  like  the  golden  rays 

Of  yonder  setting  sun, 
From  the  brightest  spot  of  love  in  the  gentle  heart 

Where  once  it  first  begun. 

We've  seen  it  bid  adieu  and  slowly  pass  away 
From  what  it  could  have  blest: 

And  have  wept  as  it  sunk  within  the  shadowy  giave 
In  the  far  distant  west. 

We've  felt  its  bliss  depart  from  the  gentle  bosom 

Of  peace  and  perfect  love, 
Leaving  a  pain  and  void  until  our  weary  souls 

Are  re-united  abovr. 


POEMS.  165 

THE   BIBLE. 

Holy  Bible,  book  sublime, 

Thy  promises  I  believe; 
Of  a  surer  balm  for  mortal  wounds 

I  can't  on  earth  conceive. 

Gracious  Word,  sweet  repose, 

In  thy  embrace  is  love  ; 
No  surer  light  can  guide  my  soul 

To  yonder's  Heaven  above. 

Opened  Word,  love  eternal, 

No  truth  thou  doth  conceal; 
This  bosom  holds  no  secret  thought 

But  what  thou  canst  reveal. 

Glorious  Word,  peace  divine, 
A  cure  for  every  pain  ; 

A  searcher  of  departed  lambs- 
Bringing  them  back  again. 

Matchless  Word,  love  untold, 

The  surest  hope  of  rest ; 
The  smooth  tide  that  bears  my  soul 

To  God's  infinite  breast. 


MATTIE. 

Mattie,  thou  knowest  I  love  thee, 
Yet  in  the  weak  channels  of  my  mind 
No  words  sufficient  can  I  find 

To  express  that  unfathomable  love. 


166  POEMS. 

A  FALLEN  WOMAN. 

She  has  fallen  !  Oh,  God  what  a  pitiful  sight 
To  see  die  so  beautiful,  tender  and  bright, 
Fall  from  the  sweet  paths  of  truth  and  right 
Into  the  lowest  slums  of  sin  and  night. 

Once  she  was  lovely,  and  pure  in  her  thought ; 
Kindness  and  peace  in  her  bosom  was  wrought; 
But  now  she  is  stained,  even  until  death 
Shall  take  from  her  being  its  last  fleeting  breath. 

Once  she  was  gentle,  modest  and  sweet ; 
A  friendly  smile  she  delighted  to  greet; 
But  now  she  has  fallen,  her  bed  is  the  street, 
Her  name  is  too  common  for  men  to  repeat. 

DEATH. 
Oh,  Death  !  I  tremble  at  the  thought 

Of  that  cold  hand  of  thine, 
That  it  must  blight  with  iron  grasp 

This  poor,  weak  heart  of  mine. 

I  tremble  that  my  weary  life — 
Tho'  rvoid  of  much  true  worth — 

Must  ever  cease  to  live  again 
In  the  pleasant  paths  of  earth. 


TBUE  FRIENDSHIP. 

True  Friendship!  how  sweet  it  is> 
Inadequate  are  words  to  tell, 

We  can  but  pause  in  secret  thought, 
And  ever  on  its  bosom  dwell. 


POEMS. 

TO  A  DEAR  ONE  ON  THE  OTHER  SHORE. 

Sweet  face  of  thine,  departed  dead, 
Canst  thou  riot  linger  by  my  bed 

On  this  low  ground  of  sorrow, 
And  bear  me  a  comfort  sweet 
Till  I  in  heaven  thou  shall  greet 

On  a  glorious  to-morrow? 

I'll  look  for  gentle  smiles  from  thee, 
Tho'  far  beyond  life's  fitful  sea, 

In  realms  of  endless  bliss  ; 
I'll  long  to  view  thy  shining  face 
In  beauty  thro'  eternal  space, 

Like  a  sunbeam's  sweet  kiss. 

* 

I'll  long  to  see  that  lovely  face 
As  it  once  shone  in  perfect  grace, 

So  gentle  and  divine; 
'Twould  bear  a  truer  sense  of  heaven 
Than  allfthe  gifts  God  has  given 

To  this  cold  heart  of  mine. 

'Twould  give  me  until  life  is  o'er 
A  firmer  hope  of  that  sweet  shore 

When  Time  has  passed  away  ; 
"Twould  take  away  my  night  on  earth 
And  give  my  soul  a  sinless  birth  — 

A  grand,  transparent  day. 


The  winter  is  here  with  its  dreary  winds, 
And  chilly  nights  of  snow  and  frost; 

It  seems  to  smile  in  cold  revenge 

On  what  sweet  summer  made  and  lost. 


168  POEMS. 

OX  THE  DEATH   OF  MR.  J.  H.  W— -. 

\TIie  highly  intelli  gf  nt  gentleman,  on  Mv^iose  death  this  poem  is  writ 
ten  was  a  tery  near  and  true  friend  of  the  author— a  native  of  this  city,) 

A  ncble,  truf  man,  has  passed  from  the  sphere 
Of  life  and  its  trials,  of  life  and  its  care, 
For  the  home  he  longed  for,  the  rest  he  sought, 
He  constantly  cherished  the  happiest  thought. 

He  lived  but  to  love,  all  nature  was  dear 
Unto  him  whose  heart  no  malice  could  bear, 
And  never  words  from  his  lips  were  of  strife, 
But  love  in  its  fullness  composed  his  life. 

'Twas  strange  that  one  so  noble  should  die 
In  the  blorm  of  youth,  with  a  character  high  ; 
Should  bid  farewell  in  the  noon-tide  of  life 
To  two  sweet  children  and  a  fond,  loving  wife. 

He  faded  like  the  rose  on  a  lovely  June  morn, 
To  a  home  and  a  heaven  his  spirit  was  borne; 
With  a  life  so  pure,  so  noble  and  brave, 
He  has  beautified  death  and  honor'd  the  grave. 


YOURS,  NOT  MINE. 

Years  have  come  and  passed  away 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  sea, 

Leaving  all  their  peace  in  gold 
For  YOU  and  not  for  me. 

Years  have  come  and  passed  awayr 
Their  mem'ry  brings  no  sigh, 

For  rainbows  on  each  zephyr  morn 
Adorn'd  YOUR  eastern  sky. 


(FIRST  VOLUM£.) 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  FRIENDS, 

W.  H.  GIBBER  JR.,  AND  J.  WILSON  GIBBES, 

OF  COLUMBIA,  S;  C. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


170  POEMS. 

TO  A  FRIEND. 

A  glance  into  that  face  of  thine 
Shows  friendship  sweet  ; 

A  friendship  that  will  never  be  cast 
Beneath  my  feet. 

I  love  the  impulse  of  that  heart 

Where- friendship  lives  ; 
'Tis  sweeter  to  me  than  the  dewy  morn 

The  spring-tide  gives. 

I'll  praise  that  noble  heart  of  thine 

Till  I  pass  above  ; 
'Twill  be  to  me  throughout  my  life 

A  source  of  love. 


THIS  LOCK  OF  HAIR  IN  MY  WATCH. 

After  that  face  is  cold  and  still, 

That  face  to  me  so  fair, 
I'll  treasure  in  a  jewel'd  case 

This  simple  lock  of  hair. 

Tho'  shadows  gather  'round  my  path, 

Deep  sorrow  fill  the  air, 
Yet  in  fond  mem'ry  I  will  pri/e 

This  simple  lock  of  hair. 

While  in  that  gloomy  resting  place, 
For  which  I  shall  prepare  ; 

There'll  lie  within  a  jewelYl  case 
This  simple  lock  of  hair. 


POEMS.  171 

HER  HEART  IS  MY  COTTAGE. 

Her  heart  is  my  cottage  away  in  the  wood, 

And  the  ivy  entwines  its  door; 
Its  walls  are  of  love,  with  entrance  ajar 

To  welcome  the  needy  and  poor. 

The  lily  and  violet  they  cluster  around 

The  door  and  all  over  the  lawn, 
And  no  weeds  e'er  mar  their  innocent  growth, 

For  they've  long  since  faded  and  gone. 

I  live  in  this  cottage  amid  the  sweet  gleam 

Of  sunshine  and  peace  on  its  hearth  ; 
'Tis  fairer  than  the  home  in  which  I  was  born— 

'Tis  the  happiest  spot  on  earth. 

I've  rest  in  this  cottage  where  love  is  aglow 

As  bright  as  the  radiant  sun — 
I've  much  to  esteem,  and  naught  to  regret, 

Since  this  peaceful  life  was  begun. 

ONCE,  AND  ONLY. 

Let  us  do  all  the  good  we  can 
While  we  journey  to  yonder  shore, 

For  the  path  we  are  treading  to-day 
We  can  never  tread  in  any  more. 

We  can  never  again  recall 
The  smile  on  the  face  that  is  gone; 

We  can  never  make  brighter  that  smile 
We've  neglected  so  long  to  own. 


172  POEMS 

THE  WHITE  HEAD'S  FAREWELL  TO  TIME. 

"I'll  bid  thee  farewell!"  said  the  frosty  head, 
"Farewell  to  that  cold  hand  of  thine ; 

Long  Fve  been  forced  to  feel  thy  touch 
On  this  lone  and  feeble  head  of  mine.'' 

"Till  the  noon-day  of  life  my  hair  was  black, 
Parted  with  care  on  the  left-hand  side; 

Praised  for  its  brightness  and  neatness  of  cut, 
Charming  the  eyes  of  the  lovers  of  pride." 

"Fair  hands  have  caress'd  it  many  a  time 
When  life  was  as  fresh  as  the  budding  bay; 

I  lost  a  few  strands  as  the  years  rolled  by, 
But  ne'er  once  dreamed  of  its  fading  away." 

"I've  fought  thee,  oh,  Time!  oft  and  again, 
Since  by  the  fair  fountain  of  youth  I've  lain  ; 

I've  bathed  in  its  waters,  balmy  and  sweet, 
And  never  once  felt  a  sorrow  or  pain." 

"But  the  dew  of  my  life's  fond  summer  is  gone, 
Dried  up  forever  by  that  hand  of  thine — 

I  must  pass  to  "the  grave  by  thy  command, 
Oh,  thou  eternal,  resistless  Time!" 


YOU  CRITICS. 

Oh,  you  critics! — if  an  author  errs  in  a  single  line, 

That  line  you'll  surely  quote, 
And  will  give  it  as  a  sample  fair 

Of  all  he  ever  wrote. 


POEMS,  173 

THINK  OF  ME. 

When  memory  fond  shall  call  you  back 
To  hours  you've  spent  by  the  Congaree, 

And  faces  dear  and  smiles  enchanting 
Throng  your  bosom— think  of  me. 

Think  of  me  on  life's  dark  ocean, 

Toss'd  by  many  a  troubled  wave; 
Hound  by  fates  eternal  fetters, 

Floating  o'er  a  gloomy  grave. 

Think  where  once  your  smiles  were  given 

To  cheer  me  with  their  bliss  untold; 
When  they  were  as  bright  as  heaven's, 

Ere  your  loving  words  grew  cold. 

Think  when  hope  was  like  the  morning 

Unclouded,  with  its  peaceful  rays; 
Where  fond  anticipation  slumber'd 

On  its  brow  in  those  sweet  days. 

Think  what  binds  this  lonely  bosom 
Are  the  pleasant  ties  I  cannot  part — 

1  Constancy  in  gold  and  steel 

I  trust  is  graven  on  your  heart. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

There  is  no  love  like  a  mother's  love,, 
No  heart  that  beats  so  warm, 

No  form  so  delicate  that  could  brave 
Life's  battle  and  its  storm. 


174  POEMS. 

THE  GRAVE  OF  THE  PAST. 

As  I  stand  by  the  weather-beaten  grave 
Of  the  solemn  past, 

And  think  of  those  I  might  have  loved, 
My  heart  beats  fast. 

As  I  think  of  moments  unimproved, 
How  strange  I  feel, 

And  dt  ep  regret  into  my  heart 
Is  wont  to  steal. 

I  think  of  the  many  warning  words 

I  might  have  spoken 
To  comfort  that  forsaken  heart, 

So  sadJy  broken. 
I  think  of  the  pearl  that  might  have  shone 

Lovely  and  bright, 
Now  lost  in  the  mould 'ring  clay 

Of  earth's  cold  night. 

While  I  stand  by  this  neglected  grave, 

I  feel  so  lone, 
As  my  heart  beats  the  solemn  words, 

The  past  is  gone! 
As  I  stand  alone  no  pleasant  sound 

Doth  greet  my  ear, 
But  the  murmuring  winds  sadly  tell 

That  all  is  drear. 
No  birds  sing  sweet  'round  that  lone  spot, 

No  flowers  bloom  ; 
But  ling' ring  shadows  forever  prove 

Its  deepest  gloom. 


POEMS.  175 


Oh,  thou  Grave!  thou  dost  not  hold 

A  virtue  true  ; 

Would  that  I  could  breathe  for  thee 
A  last  adieu  ! 

Would  that  I  from  thee  forever 

Could  turn  away, 

And  make  a  beautiful,  sunny  grave 
Of  sweet  to-day. 


NOT  TILL  THEN. 

When  I  hear  thy  voice  grow  harsh, 
8ee  thee  scan  me  with  contempt, 

And  turn  thy  face  away; 
Then,  not  even  then,  will  I 
Esteem  the  love-light  in  thy  heart 

For  me  a  dying  ray. 

When  I  feel  the  grasp  of  kindness 
Slowly  turn  to  a  distant  touch 

Of  thy  sweet,  gentle  hand  ; 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  will  I 
Look  on  thee  as  one  too  strange 

For  me  to  understand. 

When  I  see  thee  shun  my  coming, 
Pass  along  some  other  way, 

Else  we  should  simply  meet ; 
Then,  not  even  then,  will  f 
Condemn  thy  being  whose  sweet  face 

I  too  gladly  would  greet. 


17(J  POEM  8. 

BESIDE  THE  BROOK. 

I  take  me  down  beside  this  babbling  brook 
With  heart  made  sad  by  the  mem'ry  of  a  look 

From  Jong-loved  absent  eyes; 
I  sit  me  down  and  learn  what  I  have  been 
'Mid  all  the  vicissitudes  of  a  life  of  sin 

In  a  world  of  grief  and  sighs. 

I  catch  a  sound — a  gentle  note  of  love 

From  the  lonely  heart  of  some  sweet  mother-dove 

In  the  distant  maple  tree; 

If  she  could  but  speak  how  gladly  she  would  tell 
Of  the  green  hedge  where  oft  she  used  to  dwell 

When  her  heart  was  young  and  free. 

Beside  this  brook  where  no  strange  sound  is  heard 
Her  young  lay  sleeping  'ncath  their  parent  bird 

On  the  morn  of  each  summer  day; 
But  some  rash  hand  perhaps  from  her  had  borne 
Her  tender  young  and  left  her  here  alone 

To  mourn  her  sweet  life  away. 

As  I  list  to  Nature  it  seems  from  yonder  sky 
I  hear  a  gentler  note  of  music  drawing  nigh 

Than  this  from  an  earthly  dove — 
Tis  the  voice  of  Annie,  whose  sweet,  plaintive  lays 
Endear'd  me  to  her  in  other  sunny  days 

As  she  sang  to  me  of  love. 

My  fond  Annie,  nigh  whom  I  used  to  dwell 
Ere  I  bade  her  lovely  face  farewell, 

And  had  seen  her  smiles  depart— 


BESIDE  THE  BROOK. 

I  take  me  down  beside  this  babbling  brook 
With  heart  made  sad  by  the  niem'ry  of  a  look 

From  long-loved  absent  eyes ; 
I  sit  me  down  and  learn  what  I  have  been 
'Mid  all  the  vicissitudes  of  a  life  of  sin 

In  a  world  of  grief  and  sighs. 


POEMS  179 

She  loved  me  in  her  early  days,  and  too 
When  her  sweet  life  was  ting'd  with  sorrow's  hue 
She  loved  me  still  with  all  her  heart. 

But  she  has  flown  to  yonder  realms  above, 

And  left  me  to  mourn  o'er  the  mem'ry  of  that  love 

Which  she  for  me  has  left  behind — 
Sweet  be  her  rest  until  we  meet  again 
In  that  bright  world  where  there's  no  grief  or  pain, 

And  love's  fond  ties  forever  bind. 


THE  SWEETEST  ROSE. 

She's  too  poor  to  own  the  costly  garments  like  you  possess, 

Or  to  mingle  with  your  fashionable  kind; 
Yet  you  may  seek  where'er  you  will  in  all  your  giddy  circle 

But  no  such  noble  heart  as  hers  you'll  find. 

Her  sweet  form  will  ne'er  glide  like  yours  o'er  the  ball 
room  floor 

Two  thirds  clad  in  garments  rich  and  fair — 
Ah,  no,  but  in   the  lone  chamber  where  grief  and  sorrow 

reign 
You'll  always  find  her  ministering  there. 

In  your  vain  eyes  she's  no  better  than  the  servant  you  em- 

pi°y, 

For  she  was  born  and  reared  in  obscurity, 
Yet 'mid  the  blended  shades  and  light  of  this  beclouded  life, 
She  still  retained  a  sweet  life  of  purity. 

Know  you  not  that  of  all  the  roses  that  cluster  in  life's  garden, 
No  matter  how  large  their  petals  or  how  small, 

You'll  always  find  the  tend'rest  and  sweetest  opening  bud 
'Mid  the  autumn  leaves  close  by  the  garden  wall. 


180  POEMS 

ALICE  ON  HER  BIKE. 

I  turn  me  'round  to  gaze  on  thee, 
8weet  Alice,  with  thy  gentle  eyes, 

And  brownish  hair, 
And  looking  on  thy  smiling  face, 
And  slender  form  of  winning  grace, 

I  call  thee  fair — 

And  even  true,  for  truth  alone 
Dwells  in  a  bosom  fair  like  thine 

Of  angel-mould. 
My  admiration  turns  to  love 
As  thou,  sweet  Alice,  turtle  dove, 

My  eyes  behold. 

I  love  to  view  thy  slender  form 
Upon  thy  bike  of  shining  steel 

Go  flying  by; 

Fain  would  I  start  me  off  and  steal 
'Round  some  lone  corner  where  thy  wheel 

Might  pass  me  nigh. 


Few  they  are,  e'en  among  men  of  sac-ret  Writ, 

That  do  not  ofttimes  play  the  hypocrite — 

I  have  often  played  it,  this  I  know  full  well, 

Hut  of  this  my  worst  of  sins  I'm  not  too  weak  to  tell. 


Tread  softly  as  you  roam  thro'  the  garden  of  life, 

Yea,  even  on  tip-toes, 
Or  else  you  may  stain  with  your  wayward  feet 

The  leaves  of  some  sweet  rose. 


POEMS.  \Sl 


"LET  ME   LOOSE." 

^On  the  death  of  two  promising  boys  who  were  drowned  not  long  since 
in  a  river,  while  attending  a  Sunday-school  pic-nie  near  this  city.) 

'4Let  me  loose  and  I  will  save  you!" 
Cried  out  a  voice  young*  and  brave, 

As  the  current  dashed  them  onward 
To  a  lone  and  watery  grave. 

"Let  me  loose" — but  arms  grew  stronger 
That  ere  this  would  save  from  death — 

"And  I  will  save!"  but  the  pleading 
Hushed  upon  each  dying  breath. 

"Let  me  loose!"  and  two  fond  beings 

Clasped  to  each  other,  face  to  face, 
Sunk  beneath  the  gloomy  waters, 

Folded  in  death's  cold  embrace. 

How  strange  that  these  two  happy  boys 
The  objects  of  their  mothers'  pride, 

Should  thus  be  borne  in  life's  sweet  mor» 
Away  from  each  fond  mother's  side. 

How  strange  is  life! — we  know  not  when 

The  hand  of  death  may  sever 
The  ties  of  love  we  fain  would  have 

Bind  us  on  earth  forever. 

As  clasped  they  were  in  death's  embrace 

While 'neath  the  waters  driven, 
So  may  they  to  each  others  breast 

Be  clasped  again  in  Heaven, 


182  POEM&. 

BEYOND  THE  GARDEN  WALJ*. 

Down  beside  a  clump  of  roses, 
Just  beyond  the  garden  wallr 

JBat  a  little  brown-eyed  maiden 
Waiting-  for  her  beai  to  call. 

It  was  while  the  dew  was  falling 
Late  within  the  evening  hour, 

That  she  sat  with  careless  fingersy 
Tearing  petals  from  a  flower. 

'"Will  he  never  crme,''  she  whisper'tf, 
"I  have  long  been  waiting  here; 

To  miss  his  kisses  and  caresses 
Is  FAR  MORE  than  1  ean  bear." 

"He  must  know  that  I  adore  him, 
And  would  linger  here  till  day 

If  I  thought  that  he  was  comingr 
E'en  tho'  many  miles  away." 

"He  is  honest  and  is  faithful, 
And  I've  often  told  him  so; 

Bat  he  ne'er  has  said  he  loved  mer 
Never  answer'd,  yes,  or  no." 

"Oh,  I  hear  his  footsteps  coming,. 

See  the  light  of  his  cigar; 
How  it  shines  within  the  darkness 

Like  some  sweetly  glowing  star  !" 
"And  I  hear  him  softly  humming1 

That  lovely  little  plaintive  air 
Which  he  taught  me  long  ago 

Beside  these  roses  sweet  and  fair," 


POEMS.  183 

"Oh,"  she  whisper'd,  "how  I  love  him, 
Would  his  heart  I  could  but  gain!"— 

And  her  gentle  lips  responded 
To  his  own  in  sweet  refrain: — 

"What  care  I  for  all  the  roses, 

And  the  violets  on  the  hill, 
If  the  love  of  my  beloved 

But  lives  in  my  bosom  still." 

"What  care  I  for  all  the  sunbeams, 

And  the  starlight  in  the  skies, 
If  I  can  but  see  the  sunlight 

Of  his  dear,  impassion'd  eyes." 

"What  care  I  tho'  other  hearts 

Often  cold,  unfaithful  be, 
Bo  I  but  know  that  his  true  heart 

Is  ever  faithful  unto  me." 

"How  patiently  I  wait  to  greet  him, 

In  the  lonely  evening  hour, 
As  I  sit  beside  the  roses 

Blooming  in  this  lovely  bower." 

Here  she  paused,  and  looking  up, 

Beheld  his  fond,  familiar  face — 
"Dear,"  she  said,  "come  sit  beside  me 

In  this  lone,  secluded  place." 

And  they  sat  beside  the  roses 

Hand  in  hand  and  cheek  to  cheek*, 

They  never  murmur'd  or  complain'd, 
The  veil  is  drawn — let  them  speak. 


1&4  POEMS. 

THAT  GROUP  OF  SWEET  SINGERS. 

i  On  hearing  the  sweet  notes  of  the  singers  of  the  recently  organized 
choir  of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church  of  this  city,  preparatory  to  tli* 
reception  of  a  new  organ.) 

I  lore  to  gaze  on  the  fair  white  forms 

Standing  in  yon  organ  loft  ; 
I  love  to  hear  their  youthful  voices 

Gently  swelling,  sweet  and  soft. 

I  love  to  view  their  glowing  faces 
Fi))'d  with  youth's  enchanting  smile, 

And  scent  the  sweet  perfume  of  roses 
Wafted  from  their  lips  the  while. 

A  harp  of  a  thousand  golden  strings 

Can  bear  no  music  half  so  sweet 
As  these  sad  notes  that  tell  my  soul 

Of  ONE  in  heaven  whom  I  shall  meet. 

It  seems  I  hear  her  once  fond  voice 

That  often  whisper'd  in  these  ears— 
The  mem'ry  of  her  rose-hue'd  cheeks 
Brings  to  these  eyes  a  fount  of  tears. 

Not  tears  for  it  young  life  idly  spent 

In  the  feigned  pretence  to  do  the  right ; 

But  tears,  alas!  of  grief  and  pain 
For  a  disunited  heart  to-night. 

Each  note  of  the  sad,  sweet  music  brings 
The  mem'ry  of  other  sunny  days; 

The  light  of  love  from  gentle  azure  eyes 
Glows  brighter  now— celestial  rays, 


PC  EM  8.  181 

I  love  the  notes  that,  too,  remind  me 
Of  a  brighter  home  where  I  shall  dwell 

When  life's  strange  tide  has  outward  pass'd, 
And  I  have  breathed  to  earth  farewell. 


FAREWELL,  SWEET  ROSE. 

(On  the  death  of  Miss  C ,  of  this  city.) 

Farewell,  sweet  budding  rose  of  earth! 

From  loved  ones  thou  hast  passed  away, 
OVr  death's  dark  river  thou  hast  sailed 

To  await  our  coming,  some  sweet  day. 

Farewell ! — but  the  sound  of  that  sad  word 

Soon  shall  hush  on  life's  cold  tide, 
We,  too,  shall  pass  o'er  one  by  one 

And  gather  with  thee  on  the  other  side. 

YOU  DOMESTIC  CRITICS. 

Oh,  you  domestic  critics  who  always  quote, 
But  cannot  e'en  compose  a  readable  letter; 

I  defy  you  with  all  your  self-blown  wisdom, 
To  write  a  decent  line  of  verse — or  make  mine  better. 


Fair  maid,  'tis  a  "little  gay  poem"  you  wish, 
But  you  cannot  get  it  to-morrow  ; 

But  some  sweet  day  I'll  grant  your  request 
When  my  heart  is  free  from  sorrow. 


186  POEMS. 

THAT  LITTLE  BROWN-EYED  LADY. 

In  a  cool  and  shady  cottage 
Beside  the  rippling  Congaree 

There's  a  little  brown-eyed  lady 
Who  is  all  the  world  to  me. 

On  her  temples  blooms  the  lily, 
From  her  lips  the  honey  bee 

Sips  the  purest,  sweetest  nectar. 
Known  within  this  world  to  me. 

On  her  head  the  roses  cluster, 
On  each  cheek  a  crimson  hue 

Is  soften'd  by  her  tender  smiles, 
Like  rose-tints  in  morning  dew. 

In  her  hand  she  holds  a  sceptre 
Like  unto  a  cupid's  dart, 

And  I  feel  it  daily  piercing 
Like  an  arrow  in  rny  heart. 

O'er  her  bosom  is  an  armor 
Stronger  than  the  Knight's  of  old, 

'Neath  whose  surface  fits  a  garment 
Naught  but  angels  can  unfold. 

'Neath  that  garment  there's  a  world 

Which  no  wayward  heart  can  win- 
It  is  by  love  and  love  alone 
That  I  shall  ever  go  therein. 

Forgive  him  ere  he  turns  away, 
You  may  need  his  love  another  day. 


POEMS  187 

THAT  UPPER,  WESTERN  ROOM. 

I  hate  that  upper,  western  room 

In  which  a  cruel  lady  sat; 
Ah,  yes,  I  feel  toward  that  room 

As  the  mouse  t'ward  the  hungry  cat. 

F<  r  she  whom  I  can  ne'er  forgive 

As  long  as  life  exists  in  me, 
Oft  sat  1  eside  that  window  lone, 

Almost  hidden  by  the  elm  tree. 

I  hate  that  roof  all  cover'd  o'er 

With  spring's  dead  buds  and  autumn's  leaves; 
I  hate  the  lonely  grave-yard  moss 

That  clusters  'round  its  dingy  eaves. 

I  hate  that  granite  window  piece 

On  which  sat  a  vase  of  flowers; 
I  hate  the  mem'ry  of  those  buds, 

They  lost  their  sweetness  in  her  bowers. 

I  hate  that  mirror  on  the  wall 

In  which  she  saw  her  smiling  face  ; 

I  hate  that  powdtr-puff  and  paint 
That  gave  her  all  her  transient  grace. 

I  hate  the  mtm'ry  of  those  hands 

That  used  to  curl  that  raven  hair  ; 
Ah,  yes,  I  hate  it,  for  they  moved 

As  if  no  other  hands  were  fair. 

I  hate  that  face  that  never  bore 
A  single  smile  to  brighten  gloom — 

Yes,  I  hate  the  bitter  mem'ry 
Of  that  upper,  western  room. 


188  POEMS 

A  GREEN  ISLE  OF  REST. 

I  look  away  across  life's  sea 

To  an  eden  land  prepared  for  me, 

Of  bliss  untold  ; 

My  soul  longs  for  that  green  Isle 
As  a  mother  that  her  absent  child 

She  might  behold. 

I  look  to  where  I  cannot  flee — 
A  green  Isle  in  a  heavenly  sea, 

A  home  of  rest ; 

My  soul  is  wont  to  launch  and  float 
Unto  that  Isle,  that  distant  port, 

And  leave  this  breast. 

I  look  to  where  there's  peace  in  store 
And  peace  can  ne'er  be  parted  more 

By  Time's  cold  hand  ; 
Where  all  is  blessed  and  serene, 
With  flowers  fresh  and  grasses  green- 

A  heavenly  land. 

I  hear  sweet  music's  distant  strain, 
And  it  deadens  ev'ry  sense  of  pain 

The  past  has  given  ; 
It  almost  bears  my  soul  afloat 
Into  that  grand  and  blessed  port — 

My  home,  my  heaven. 


The  human  heart  like  the  sensitive  plant 
Will  close  its  leaf  of  love 

If  touched  by  the  hand  of  ingratitude. 


POEMS.  189 

SLEEPING  'NEATH  THE  VIOLETS. 

Once  on  yon  lone  hill  where  stands  the  maple  tree 
Half-clad  with  gold  and  red-tinged  autumn  leaves, 

My  love  stood  weeping — 
Weeping  o'er  the  fickleness  of  human  love — 
But  now,  pillow'd  there  'neath  the  canopy  of  heaven 

She's  gently  sleeping. 

Little  did  she  think  a^  she  gither'd  the  dewy  violets 
That  in  the  balmy  spring  of  the  approaching  year 

She'd  be  resting  there; 

That  'mid  the  maple's  shade  she  always  loved  so  well 
The  little  violets  would  bloom  unseen,  unsought, 

And  its  shade  be  drear. 

She  sleeps  there  alone— as  fair  as  the  snow-white  robe 
That  tenderly  wrapped  her  pure  and  spotless  form 

Ere  it  touched  the  earth — 

Tho'  her  heart  has  ceased  to  beat  and  her  sweet  lips  are  still, 
Yet  she  has  bequeathed  to  mankind  all  she  could : — 

A  young  life  of  true  worth. 


"ISN'T  THIS  BLISS." 

O'er  against  the  garden  wall,  thrice  kissed  by  wayward  lips 

She  stood  pondering  and  weeping 
O'er  that  momentary  bliss  known  to  all  fair  m.iidens — 

A  stolen  kiss. 
With  ruby  lips,  bright  eyes  gazing  upward  in  his  face, 

She  stood  delighted,  yet  angry; 

Till  strong  arms  embraced  her,  and  forgetting  all  she  sighed, 
"Isn't  this  bliss?" 


190  POEMS. 

A  KEPLY  TO  A  VALENTINE. 

The  author  on  receiving  a  valentine,  very  prettily  gotten  up,  consist 
ing  of  a  sheet  of  blue  note  paper,  with  ribbon  of  four  colors,  red,  white, 
pink  and  blue,  in  neat  bows  fastened  in  the  margin  of  same,  opposite 
which  were  appropriate  lines  in  verse,  requesting  the  return  of  the  bows 
he  wished,  sent  the  young  lady  the  following: 

My  little  dear  beside  the  sea, 
Quite  often  I  do  think  of  thee — 
While  o'er  this  page  I  sigh  and  think 
A  tear  falls  on  this  bow  of  "pink." 

My  dearest  one,  then  don't  repine, 
I'll  be  your  loving  valentine — 
As  a  token  that  my  love  is  true, 
I'll  just  return  the  bow  of  "blue." 


Within  thy  lonely  breast,  fair  one, 
Life's  many  cares  may  sorely  weigh; 

But  persevere  with  faith  and  love, 
And  thou  wilt  gain  thy  perfect  day. 


Oh,  this  transitory  life 
With  its  many,  many  cares, 

Has  no  balm  for  mortal  wounds 
And  no  sympathizing  tears. 


All  for  a  transient  word  of  praise 
The  poet's  days  are  vainly  spent, 

Soon  his  works  are  all  forgotten, 
Yet  ingratitude  is  never  meant. 


POEMS. 

A  SWEET  OBJECT. 

It  lay  on  the  back  of  the  bench 
In  its  magic  beauty, 

A  jewel  rich  and  fair  ; 
And  as  my  thoughts  enlarged 
How  I  fondly  gazed 
On  the  sweet  thing  lying  there. 

It  lay  on  the  back  of  the  bench, 
A  mysterious  object 

I  could  not  understand  ; 
Yet  I  loved  its  angel-shape, 
As  my  passionate  gaze 
Sunk  to  her  matchless  hand. 


ENDURANCE. 

Every  sunbeam  has  its  shadow, 
Every  shadow  has  its  sorrow, 

Sorrow  that  we  all  must  bear; 
Thro'  that  shadow  and  that  sorrow 
Hope  renew'd  will  bear  us  onward 

To  a  home  more  bright  and  fair. 


A  SNOW  COVERED  EARTH. 

Would  I  were  a  star  in  the  heavens, 

Conscious  and  having  being, 
That  I  might  peep  between  the  parting  clouds 

On  nature's  grand  attire — 

A  snow-cover'd  earth. 


192  POEMS. 

TO  FAIR  NINA. 

Fair  N  ina,  your  fondest  girlhood  years 
Have  been  like  youth's  enchanting  dream, 

Careless  and  sweet; 
Around  your  path  each  sunny  hour 
Roses  have  budded  and  violets  bloom'd 

Beneath  your  feet. 

Many  bright  suns  have  shown  within 
That  dewy  path  which  your  fond  feet 

Did  then  pursue ; 

Tvvas  in  those  sweet  and  happy  hours 
You  gather'd  in  your  peaceful  heart 

Character  true. 

Many  have  sought  and  often  loved 
Your  snowy  hand,  but  all  in  vain — 

You  dreamed  of  me, 
And  I  of  you — tho'  we've  never  met — 
Those  dreams  may  have  a  meaning,  thor 

We're  both  at  sea. 


The  sweetest  rose  of  life  may  it  ever  entwine 
The  warm-btating  heart  in  that  bosom  of  thine, 
And  the  lilac  that  bloom'd  in  my  childhood's  hour, 
May  it  ever  make  fragrant  thy  loneliest  bower. 


Thou  art  fairer  to  me  than  all  I  perceive 

Frcm  the  dawn  of  the  morn  till  the  close  of  the  eve, 

And  when  the  clouds  have  veiled  fair  lunar's  bright  light, 

Still  thou  art  to  my  heart  a  perfect  delight. 


POEMS.  193 

TO  DORA. 

I  wonder,  as  my  memory  calls 

Me  back  to  other  sunny  days, 
I  f  she  e'er  thinks  of  him  who  still 

Adores  all  her  winning  ways. 

Her  dark  brown  eyes,  so  pure,  sublime, 

With  soft  and  peaceful  glow; 
Fain  would  I  live  in  that  lone  spark 

That's  burning  sweet  and  low. 

Not  burning  low  as  a  dying  spark 

Within  a  tear-stain'd,  dying  eye, 
But  a  holy  gleam  of  gentle  love, 

As  clear  as  the  noon-day  sky, 

I  wonder,  tho'  she  is  far  away, 

If  she  ever  thinks  of  me, 
And  the  glances  we've  exchanged 

While  beside  the  Congaree. 

Oh,  sacred  eyes,  if  e'er  you  gaze 

On  these  lone  words  of  mine, 
Look  up,  and  think  of  him  whose  love 

Is  traced  in  every  line. 

A  WISH. 

'Round  thy  path  may  roses  cluster, 
And  o'er  thy  head  the  myrtle  twine, 

And  ne'er  a  ray  of  hope  grow  dim 
Within  that  gentle  heart  of  thine. 


194  POEMS. 


TO  FLORENCE,  LILY  AND  NONIE. 

My  fond  sisters,  and  can  I  close  this  feeble  work 
Which  tho',  perhaps,  unknown  to  fame  may  be, 

Without  here  inscribing  from  my  inmost  heart 
That  ardent  love  I've  always  borne  for  thee. 

When  other  forms  that  feigned  to  stand  beside  me 
Left  me  to  drift  alone  on  life's  cold  tide  ; 

Thy  dear  forms  with  outstretch'd  arms  received  me, 
And  passed  adown  life's  journey  by  my  side. 

Tho'  earth's  dark  clouds  may  gather  'round  my  heart, 
And  the  star  of  hope  grow  dim  upon  its  shrine, 

Yet  'mid  the  shadows  that  then  would  sink  within  me, 
I'd  find  sweet  rest  in  that  true  love  of  thine. 


A  WISH. 

On  the  sunny  side  of  life  I  trust 
To  see  your  gentle  footsteps  wend, 

And  in  those  loving  words  "well  done" 
May  your  peaceful  journey  end. 


i4i*DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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